Chapter Three
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Tessa
The ice symbol is still there when I wake up.
I tell myself it’s impossible. Ice doesn’t last overnight even when the porch is sheltered and the temperature is above freezing.
But when I open my front door at four in the morning, mug of coffee in hand, there it is, the intricate pattern of crystalline lines etched into the wood like someone carved it with a frozen blade.
I set my coffee down and crouch to examine it more closely.
In the dim light from my porch lamp, the symbol seems to shimmer, catching reflections that shouldn’t exist. It’s beautiful in a terrible sort of way with spirals and geometric patterns that hurt to look at for too long, like they’re pulling at something behind my eyes.
“Fuck this,” I mutter, and go back inside for a scrub brush and a bucket of hot water.
The moment the bristles touch the symbol, pain lances through my fingers. Not hot—cold. A searing, bone-deep cold that feels like frostbite and fire all at once. I jerk back, dropping the brush, and stare at my hand.
Red marks streak across my palm and fingers, angry welts that look like burns but feel like ice.
“What the hell?”
I try again, using gloves this time, but the same thing happens. The cold radiates through the rubber, through my skin, straight into the bone. It’s not natural. It’s not possible.
After the third attempt leaves my hands cramping and numb, I give up. I throw a doormat over the symbol, grab my keys, and head to the café.
I’ll deal with it later. Maybe it’ll melt on its own. Maybe I imagined the whole thing, or I’m losing my mind.
Betty’s Café is busy today, which is exactly what I need, enough customers to keep my hands moving and my mind occupied. I pour coffee, flip pancakes, wipe down tables, and pretend everything is fine.
Hannah slides into a booth during the mid-morning lull, her blonde hair pulled back in a messy bun, Grace’s carrier bag on the seat beside her.
“Rough night?” she asks, eyeing me with that knowing look she gets sometimes.
“Something like that.” I pour her a coffee without asking. “How’s Grace?”
“Thriving. She tried to murder a sock this morning.” Hannah wraps her hands around the mug, studying me over the rim. “You look exhausted. Are you sleeping okay?”
“Fine,” I lie.
She doesn’t believe me, I can see it in her eyes, but she doesn’t push. That’s one thing I love about Hannah. She knows when to leave things alone.
“So,” she says instead, her voice dropping to a more playful tone, “I saw your vampire this morning.”
My hands still on the coffee pot. “He’s not my vampire.”
“Uh-huh. That’s why he stares at you like you’re the only person in the room.” She grins. “That’s why he tips you twenty dollars for a three-dollar-fifty coffee.”
“He tips everyone well.”
“Tessa.” Hannah leans forward. “He tips you twenty dollars.”
Heat creeps up my neck, and I busy myself refilling the napkin dispensers. “Drop it, Hannah.”
“I’m just saying, the man’s into you. And you’re into him. I see the way you look at him when you think no one’s watching.”
“Hannah—”
“I know, I know. He’s dangerous. He’s in an MC. He’s probably done terrible things.” She shrugs. “But Blade’s in an MC too, and I’m in love with him, so is Grace. Although she likes Vex more. Maybe we’re all just attracted to terrible life choices.”
Despite everything, I laugh. “You think?”
“Absolutely.” She takes a sip of coffee. “But seriously, Tessa. You look like hell. Are you sure you’re okay?”
The concern in her voice makes my throat tight. I want to tell her. Want to show her the burns on my hands, tell her about the symbol that won’t wash away, about the feeling that something’s been watching me. But the words stick.
Because if I say it out loud, it becomes real. And I’m not ready for that.
“I’m fine,” I say again. “Just tired.”
She doesn’t look convinced, but before she can press, the bell chimes and a group of truckers come in for lunch. I escape into the familiar rhythm of work, taking orders, delivering food, keeping my smile bright and my hands busy.
But my palms ache where I touched the symbol. And every time I glance at the window, I swear I see shadows moving wrong.
By the time I close up at nine, exhaustion has settled into my bones. My hands throb. My head pounds. All I want is a hot shower and my bed.
The walk home should be peaceful. The snow is falling softly, Main Street is quiet, and the streetlights cast warm pools of light on the sidewalk. But something’s off. That same wrongness from last night and a sense of being watched.
I walk faster.
The first streetlight flickers when I’m two blocks from home.
“Not again,” I whisper.
The second light goes out completely.
My heart starts to race, adrenaline flooding my system. I break into a jog, my breath pluming in the cold air. Behind me, I hear it, footsteps that aren’t mine. Heavy. Deliberate. Getting closer.
I run.
The fog rolls in from nowhere, thick and unnatural, swallowing the street behind me. Inside it, I hear sounds that make my skin crawl. Cracking branches. The groan of ice under pressure. A hiss that’s not quite animal, not quite human.
My house is just ahead. I can see my porch light burning. Almost there. Almost—
Something hits me from behind.
Not a body. Not exactly. It’s cold—so cold it steals the breath from my lungs. Claws of ice rake across my shoulder, tearing through my coat, my sweater, my skin. The pain is blinding, freezing and burning all at once.
Stumbling, I catch myself on a fence post, and run the last few yards. My hands shake so badly I can barely get the key in the lock. Behind me, I hear that hiss again, closer now, and smell something wrong, like ozone and old ice and decay.
The key turns. The door swings open. I throw myself inside and slam it shut, throwing the deadbolt and the chain.
For a long moment, I just stand there, my back pressed against the door, my heart hammering so hard I think it might burst. My shoulder throbs with each pulse of blood, and when I touch it, my hand comes away dark.
Blood. I’m bleeding.
I stumble to the bathroom, turn on all the lights, and peel off my coat and sweater with shaking hands. The wounds on my shoulder are savage—four parallel gashes that look like claw marks, except the edges are rimmed with frost.
“What the fuck,” I whisper. “What the actual fuck.”
I wash the wounds carefully, wincing at every touch. They’re not deep enough for stitches, but they’re bad. And they’re cold. Even under the hot water, they feel like ice against my skin.
I bandage them as best I can, then strip down completely for a shower. I need to wash off the blood, the fear, the feeling of those claws raking across my skin.
The hot water feels like heaven, and I stand under the spray until my skin turns pink and my muscles relax. I wash my hair, scrub my body, and try to convince myself I’m safe now. That, whatever was out there, can’t get to me in here.
That’s when I see it.
In the mirror, partially obscured by steam, something dark spreads across my shoulder blade. I wipe the glass clear and turn, craning my neck to see.
The mark.
It’s not the claw wounds, those are on my front shoulder. This is something else entirely. A pattern of black frost spreads across my skin like living ice, intricate and beautiful and terrifying. It matches the symbol on my porch. Exactly.
I touch it with trembling fingers, and it pulses under my skin, cold and alive.
“No,” I breathe. “No, no, no.”
But it’s there. Real. Undeniable.
Something has marked me. Claimed me.
And I have no idea what to do about it.
I didn’t sleep that night.
I sit on my couch, every light in the house burning, my baseball bat across my lap, and I watch the windows. Wait for the shadows to move. Listen for the hiss, the crack of ice, those heavy footsteps.
They don’t come.
But the mark on my shoulder burns with cold, and I know deep in my gut where instinct lives, this isn’t over.
Whatever found me tonight will be back.
And next time, I might not make it to my door.
I should go to the Kings. Should tell Blade, or Prophet, or... or Vex. They know about the supernatural. They’d understand. They might even be able to help.
But the thought of walking into that clubhouse, of asking for help from the very monsters I’ve been trying to avoid, makes my stomach turn. I came to Crystal Creek to escape. To be safe. To be normal.
And now I’m marked by something that shouldn’t exist, hunted by something I can’t see, bleeding from wounds made by claws of ice.
The irony isn’t lost on me.
I pull my knees to my chest, wrap my arms around them, and watch the darkness outside my windows. The mark pulses in time with my heartbeat.
By the time the sun rises, I’ve made a decision.
I’m not going to the Kings.
I don’t need them. Don’t need their protection, their rules, their world of monsters and violence. I’ll figure this out on my own. I’ll find a way to get rid of the mark, to make whatever’s hunting me lose interest.
I’ll be fine.
I have to be.
Because the alternative is becoming tangled up with the Kings of Anarchy, with vampires and werewolves and whatever else lurks in Crystal Creek’s shadows is unthinkable.
I’ll handle this myself.
Even as I think it, the mark burns colder, and somewhere in the distance, I swear I hear something laugh.