Wicked Mistletoe (Nightshades)

Prologue

PROLOGUE

EMILIA

6 years ago…

I’m a shadow, a ghost, a nobody.

My hands bury themselves deep into my hoodie pockets, elbows jutting out like awkward wings as I hunch into myself, trailing behind the group of four insanely tall high school seniors.

I’m not hiding—okay, maybe I am. But can you blame me? I’m just trying not to draw any unwanted attention.

Fat chance of that working.

I can practically feel the derisive sneers and glares drilling into the back of my head. Even the Christmas lights lining the hallway seem to join in, their mock cheer only sharpening the sting. Ho-ho-freaking-ho. It’s January, people. Let it go already. But no amount of festive decorations can soften the biting bitterness pouring off these seniors. A 16-year-old joining their ranks—in second semester? The horror!

I roll my eyes so hard I nearly see my brain and sink deeper into my baggy cocoon. Screw them and their judgmental attitudes.

My gaze latches onto the feet of one of the guys in front of me. Nice shoes —probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. Mesmerized, I fixate on his stride.

Left foot, right foot. Left foot, right foot.

The world narrows down to those alternating steps. My brain goes quiet, my breathing evens out, the hallway noise fades away, and suddenly I’m zeroed in on their conversation with supernatural clarity.

“Think about it, Michael,” one of them says. “Just how smart can this girl be? Are we talking genius level? This is a death trap for her. No way she can survive senior year coming from where—the junior grade? Sophomore?”

Great. They’re talking about me. Because of course they are. Why wouldn’t they gossip about the freak newcomer?

Another one guffaws, and I resist the urge to look up. “I heard she has OCD or some shit. And she has a neuro—neuro–something. A neuro deficiency perhaps?”

Oh, for the love of— These idiots can’t even get their insults right.

Now laughter bursts out among them—loud, hysterical, and grating. It’s like nails on a chalkboard, setting my teeth on edge. The fizzing in my veins boils over, and before I can even think, the words spill out of me. “You mean neurodivergent, blockhead?”

They come to an abrupt stop, and I nearly face-plant into one of their backs. As all four giants swivel to face me, I hold my breath. Shit. Why are they so freakishly tall?

My heart does the cha-cha in my chest. But I raise my chin defiantly, keeping my gaze glued to Mr. Nice Shoes’ feet—no way am I craning my neck to look at their faces. I may be small, but I’m not about to let them see me cower.

“I’m neurodivergent,” I continue, my mouth apparently on a suicide mission. “You want to know just how smart I am? Smarter than a bunch of morons walking around the school with their pants halfway down their asses, which is against the rules, by the way. Nobody wants a peep show of your stinking underwear.”

Scraping together every ounce of courage, I glance up. They look absolutely gobsmacked. Huh . Now I’m on a roll, my filter completely fried. I’m so over people talking down to me. “And what’s with the stench? Drugs? What are you guys? Some wannabe gangsters? Just because our town’s crawling with crime doesn’t mean a bunch of high school boys like you should glorify it. You could get arrested, you know.”

I wrinkle my nose in disgust as I sidestep around them. My hands are trembling inside my pockets, and sweat dribbles down my back.

Nice going, girl. Make enemies on day one. Stellar plan.

The cafeteria doors loom ahead. I push them open and?—

Silence.

I swallow hard. Every eyeball in there is already on me, gazes fixed like I’m some kind of alien specimen.

Oh crap, did they hear my little tirade? Please, ground, open up and swallow me whole.

A deep rumble snaps my gaze back. My eyes land on the familiar shoes first, then travel up, up, and up until they meet his face. My heart does a spectacular backflip and lodges itself in my throat. He’s laughing , but that’s not what steals my breath. No, it’s his face.

Holy guacamole. God must’ve been showing off when He made this one. Because why else is he so criminally good-looking? Strong nose with a roguish little crook—most likely the souvenir of one too many fights. Flawless golden skin that would make even the sun jealous. Full, pink lips that look softer than a cloud. And those eyes. Sweet baby Jesus, those eyes .

For one eternal second, our gazes lock. Grey? No. Chrome? No. Silver . Like moonlight. The kind that pulls you in and doesn’t let go. The guy who walks nice also looks nice. Haha. No, forget nice—he’s downright lethal. Breathtaking. Literally .

My eyes skip to his shoulder, and I freeze. What the hell am I supposed to do now? Run? Faint? Spontaneously combust?

“At least you have a sense of humor to match that big brain you supposedly have, piccola, ” he says.

Piccola? Did he just call me small? The audacity!

But before I can retort, he looks up at the cafeteria, his voice booming. “Listen up, unless you want to deal with me, you leave her the fuck alone.”

Wait, what?

I stand there, completely flabbergasted, as he strolls into the cafeteria with the confidence of someone who owns the place, flanked by his three friends who now eye me with newfound curiosity. In fact, it’s as if a spotlight has suddenly turned on me, making me the focal point of a million scrutinizing stares. The sensation is so crushing, it feels like my skin is crawling off my bones.

Nope. I’m not dealing with this.

So, caught in a wave of embarrassment, I do the only thing my panic-stricken brain can come up with: I duck my head and practically sprint out of there. Did he really just threaten everyone not to bully me? My heart pounds erratically as I stumble into an empty classroom and collapse into one of the seats.

Why would he do that?

Why would he do that?

Why would he do that?

The question bounces around my skull in tune with my knees as I study the desk, desperate for some distraction. It’s covered in stupid little scribbles like ‘Mrs C has a huge rack’, ‘school sucks’, and ‘Scorpion was here’. I roll my eyes at the last one.

“Scorpion,” I mutter with a snort. What kind of pretentious douchebag calls themselves Scorpion? But my brain, the traitorous thing, bounces right back to the mesmerizing stranger in the cafeteria. The dark–haired god with eyes like molten silver. Shit, I’ve never seen anyone so devastatingly attractive, not even in those ridiculous teen dramas.

“Why did he do that?” I wonder out loud, and my stomach grumbles in response. Thanks, Captain Obvious. I get it, I missed lunch. I’m starving, but there’s no way in hell I’m stepping foot back in that cafeteria. I hate when people look at me—hate the crawling burning sensation on my skin of eyes following me like I’m some sort of freak show attraction.

Nerves buzzing, I spring up from the seat and pace the room agitatedly as my stomach throws a full-on tantrum. Maybe I should go to the library, distract myself with a book or something. Yes, the library. Go to the library . It’s safe there. Quiet. No prying eyes. I nod to myself, psyching myself up before slipping out of the classroom and back into the now-empty hallway.

“Emilia Rossi?”

I freeze at the sound of my name. Slowly, I turn to see the principal, Mr. Logan, eyeing me as if I’m a puzzle he can’t quite figure out. My eyes widen in surprise. “Uh, yeah, that’s me.”

Duh, of course he knows it’s me. We literally met a few days ago when Dad brought me to enroll in classes.

“Can you come with me for a moment?” he asks, flashing what he probably thinks is a warm smile, but it gives me the heebie-jeebies instead. I didn’t do anything wrong, did I? It’s only my first day here, and besides that minor drama at the cafeteria, I’ve been as low-key as possible. Invisible, even.

Mr. Logan doesn’t wait for my answer. He just turns and starts walking down the hall, expecting me to tag along. I do, though my legs feel like jelly.

“Is something wrong?” I manage to squeak out.

“Of course not.” He tosses a glance over his shoulder, brows arched as if daring me to spill some scandalous secret. “Unless you have something to confess?”

I shake my head mutely, suddenly finding it hard to swallow. We round the corner, and there it is—the door with “Principal Logan” etched in stern block letters. He swings it open, gesturing for me to enter first, and my pulse kicks up a notch.

“Have a seat,” he says, circling around to his imposing leather chair.

I perch on the edge of the visitor’s chair, acutely aware of how small I feel. My hands slip from my hoodie and fold neatly in my lap as I focus on a spot just past Mr. Logan’s ear, unable to meet his gaze directly. I’m trying not to fidget, but it’s a losing battle. The silence is making me squirm. Am I about to get the boot back to my old grade?

Mr. Logan takes his seat and gives me another one of those smiles. God, does he practice that in the mirror?

“Emilia,” he begins. “I’ve been looking through your records…”

Here we go.

“…and I have to say, I’m genuinely impressed. I’ve seen high school seniors struggle with AP chemistry, and you aced it at, what, fourteen?”

“Fifteen.” I correct automatically, even though I’m not sure where he’s going with this.

“Right, right.” He chuckles, shaking his head. “Our curriculum must bore you to tears.”

You have no idea, buddy. I force a polite smile, fingers drumming nervously on my thighs.

“I see the courses you registered for are all AP. How did you find your first day of classes?”

“They were… okay.” A lie. In truth, they were mind-numbingly easy, and I was bored out of my skull. But I’m not about to mention that. Last time I whined about easy classes, I ended up skipping a few semesters and becoming a high school senior at sixteen. I’m definitely not in a rush to go to college and be even more of an outcast.

Mr. Logan nods to himself, then leans back, steepling his fingers. “How would you feel about a little mental workout?”

I perk up, excitement shooting through me despite my best efforts to play it cool. A challenge? Hell yeah. “Depends. What’s the catch?” I answer cautiously. There’s always a catch, isn’t there?

“I have this student. He’s promising and has a lot of potential, but he’s not exactly motivated when it comes to school.” He pauses, letting his words hang in the air.

I remain quiet, my gaze dropping to my hand as I doodle little circles on the desk, waiting for him to get to the point.

“I want you to tutor him.”

I stop doodling. My eyes snap up. “Tutor a senior? That—that—” That’s insane! I want to shout.

“Think about it as a service to humanity. Just like how your father serves the community, this could be your own little contribution.”

I blink, trying to connect the dots between my dad’s detective work and this tutoring gig. What does my dad’s job have to do with anything? Is this some kind of weird guilt trip?

I push the thought aside before I can fixate on it, my gaze flicking over Mr. Logan’s face, searching for any sign that this might be a joke. But no—his expression is dead serious. “Wait… did the student agree to this?”

“He’ll have no choice if he wants to graduate.” He waves a hand like it’s no big deal, but I can feel my stomach flip. My knees start bouncing again, a nervous tic I can’t control.

Great. So I’ll be teaching a resentful senior who probably wants to stuff me in a locker. Fan-freaking-tastic.

“I–I don’t think it’s such a good idea, Mr. Logan. If the student doesn’t want to be tutored, there’s not much I can do. I don’t want to waste my time.” Or get beaten up…

Mr. Logan leans forward. “Tell you, what. Why don’t you meet him first? I’ll arrange for him to come to the library, and you can see for yourself what you’re dealing with. If you decide he’s beyond help, then that’s that. He won’t be graduating this year.”

I frown, finger absentmindedly returning to trace those same little circles on the desk again. Great. If I don’t tutor this guy and he fails, I’ll probably drown in guilt for life. I’m only sixteen, for crying out loud!—has everyone forgotten that? But sure, let’s pile on the pressure. Why not?

“Okay,” I murmur, even though deep down I know I’ve already signed myself up. No matter how this meeting plays out, I’m going to end up tutoring him. Damn my overactive conscience.

“That’s the spirit, Emilia!” Mr. Logan beams, clearly pleased with himself. “I’ll have someone bring Rafael to the library. So go ahead and wait for him there.”

As I stand, the bell rings, signaling the end of lunch period, and I freeze. Economics. Crap. I’m supposed to be in class right now. But Mr. Logan seems to read my indecision perfectly and waves a dismissive hand like it’s no big deal. “It’s fine. You’re excused from the class.”

Really? Shouldn’t he be a little more concerned that I’m missing my classes just to babysit some guy who’s probably failing half of his? Not that I’ll actually fall behind—I’ve already gone through the entire semester’s material. But still . Talk about misplaced priorities.

With a sigh, I shove my hands back into my pockets and wade through the sea of students heading to their next classes on my way to the library.

The library is a ghost town when I arrive, save for the elderly librarian behind the front desk who shoots me a quick, nosy glance over her horn-rimmed glasses, probably wondering what I’m doing here. And of course, the Christmas decorations are still up here too. Seriously? Why do people insist on dragging out the holiday spirit? It’s a new year, people. Does ‘new year, new me’ mean nothing anymore? Apparently not.

As I walk to the back of the room, I catch sight of the snow falling outside and groan. Damn it. That means Dad will be late again tonight. For some reason, criminals all get some twisted thrill from bad weather. Snow hits, and suddenly they’re everywhere, crawling out of the woodwork like roaches. And, of course, Dad’s always right there, chasing after them.

Dropping into a seat with a clear view of the door, I mentally prepare for this Rafael guy to show up. Rafael . I roll his name around in my head for a moment, then shake it off as I wait.

And wait.

And wait some more.

My leg starts bouncing, fingers tapping the table, and before I know it, I’m up wandering around the bookshelves like a restless ghost.

What the hell is going on? Did he just bail on this whole tutoring thing? Rafael, Rafael, Rafael. His name sounds like trouble already.

Should I just go to class even though I’m late already? Or am I supposed to just wait here forever? What should I do? What should I do? What should I do?

My mind is spinning with indecision when the library door squeaks open. Oh shit. Quickly, I pull out the nearest textbook and scurry back to my seat to pretend I’ve been deep in study mode this whole time. I place the book on the table and run my hand over it—once, twice, three times—but it does nothing to calm the sudden rush of nerves.

When I finally look up, I see his shoes first. No way. My stomach flips. Same guy from the cafeteria? Mr. Nice Shoes? My gaze crawls up, and sure enough, there he is. Those silvery eyes catch mine for a second, and it’s like a mini staring contest before my eyes start burning and I quickly shift my gaze to his neck.

Fuck! It’s definitely him .

He slides into the chair across from mine, and we’re both stuck in this awkward silence. I’m just about to break it when he suddenly reaches into his jacket. For a second, I think he’s mimicking me. Then he starts to pull his hand out, and my brain jumps to something ridiculous—what if he’s about to pull something insane like a knife? Okay, maybe not a knife—but instead, he pulls out… a chocolate bar?

He pushes it across the table toward me without a word. And I just blink at the thing as if it might attack me, confusion pulling my brows together. Then my gaze drifts to the tip of his crooked nose.

“You missed lunch. Thought you’d be hungry,” he says by way of explanation, and a little warmth wraps around my spine. My fingers hover over the chocolate bar before I finally pick it up.

“Uh, thanks,” I mumble, quickly peeling off the wrapper and taking a bite. It’s rich and sweet, and suddenly I realize just how hungry I am. I’m aware of his eyes on me as I practically inhale the chocolate bar, but I deliberately focus on his hands—big, rough hands, resting on the table.

A little embarrassed at myself, I flip open the textbook in front of me for a distraction. Physics. Perfect. “So,” I ask, turning a few pages like I’m casually running a tutoring session, “what’s your weakest subject? Which one do you need help with the most?”

He waits a beat, then says, “Now that you’re not about to pass out from hunger, I’ll give you my answer: no .”

My gaze snaps to his brows. “No?”

“No, I do not want to be fucking tutored by a girl two years younger than me—no offense. I don’t need it, no matter what Logan thinks.” His face hardens into a fierce scowl. “I’ll come here every day like he wants, but don’t you even dare try to tutor me, got it?”

Huh . Well damn, isn’t he just a ray of sunshine...

My eyes drop back to the book, but the words on the page blur into an indecipherable mess as I try to think of how to get past this Mount Everest of an attitude. I mean, I was all set to begrudgingly help the guy, mainly to avoid feeling guilty when he inevitably failed. But now? Now that I know who it is?

I’m actually excited to tutor him.

Not just because he stood up for me in the cafeteria or gave me a chocolate bar. And not because I can’t fathom sitting across from him every day and just staring at each other in awkward silence. Not even because it might make me finally go mad.

No. It’s because I like being around him. Twice now. And every time my spine tingles and my toes curl, like my body’s reacting to his presence before my mind catches up. It’s like standing too close to a live wire—there’s danger, sure, but hell, is it thrilling.

“Rafael, I?—”

“How do you know my name, Emilia ?”

“Probably the same way you know mine. From the principal, Mr. Logan.” I shoot him a look that says, “Seriously?” He grunts in response and leans back, crossing his arms, watching me with an almost amused intensity.

“Look,” I start again, “I’m grateful for what you did in the cafeteria, and for bringing me the chocolate. You seem like a nice guy and?—”

A snicker cuts through my sentence, yanking me out of my train of thought. I glare at him, but he just waves me on like this whole thing is a big joke. Whatever. I roll my eyes and continue, “If we’re going to meet here every day anyway, we might as well do the tutoring. What’s the point of wasting both our time?”

The corner of his lips tilt up in a smirk, and he leans in with his elbows on the table, “Here’s the deal: I’ll let you tutor me if you share something about yourself—something only a few people know, something you wouldn’t want others to find out.”

What? This guy, who’s been nothing but a mystery, is now asking for my deepest secrets? I chew on the inside of my cheek, weighing my options. “Fine… but only if you tell me something nobody knows about you as well.” I counter, meeting his gaze by accident, and?—.

Oh, God.

Everything muffles—even my thumping heart—and the world blacks out at the edges of my vision. I’m falling, drowning, lost in the shimmering depths that look like liquid mercury, a hauntingly beautiful silver, as chilling as the winter frost outside yet burning with a fierce intensity that makes my skin prickle.

“You have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen,” I whisper, the words escaping unbidden.

Something flickers in those mesmerizing depths—surprise? Amusement? For a split second, I see past the cocky facade, glimpsing something raw and real. Then I blink, and it’s gone. Did I imagine that?

Suddenly, the reality of what I’ve just done crashes over me like a tidal wave. Oh no. No, no, no. I just complimented him. Out loud. To his face. Panic rises in my throat, choking me. What’s wrong with me? Stupid, stupid, stupid!

My eyes skitter away to settle on his ears, my heart pounding so forcefully I’m sure he can hear it. Heat creeps up my neck, and I can feel the blush spreading, betraying me. Great, now he probably thinks I’m some awkward, blushing schoolgirl with a crush. Which I’m not. Definitely not… Right?

God, this is humiliating. I want to crawl under the table and disappear. Or maybe sprint out of the library and never look back. Yeah, that’s it. Just stand up, grab my bag, and run. I could transfer schools again. Change my name. Move to another country…

But I’m rooted to the seat, waiting for his response. Anything. But he’s just sitting there, cool as ever. How am I supposed to focus on anything when he looks like that? Handsome, so damn handsome—Godammit, stop it.

Then, as if nothing just happened, he asks, “Why don’t you go first?”

I frown, confused. “Huh?”

“Tell me something nobody knows about you, something you hate,” he elaborates.

Oh, right. My brain scrambles, trying to catch up. We’re seriously just going to pretend I didn’t just completely humiliate myself? Okay, then.

I clear my throat, grasping for some semblance of control. Still, I hesitate, unsure if I should share. But finally, I give in. “My middle name is Azalea.” Only Dad knows, and I don’t even know why I’m telling him. Maybe I’ve gone mad.

But he perks up like that’s the most fascinating thing he’s heard all week. “Azalea, like the flowers?”

“Yes.” I’m thrown off by his sudden enthusiasm. Is he mocking me or genuinely intrigued?

“Interesting.” He seems to look at me with new eyes, and I frown, wondering why that is. “They’re beautiful flowers. Why do you hate the name?”

I watch my index finger as I tap it on the table. “Because it’s none of your business. Your turn.”

Silence.

I glance up with a frown, but when he responds, his face is distant, detached. “I hate being backed into a corner and told what to do,” he says, voice flat, almost robotic. “I don’t like being tutored either.”

My lips part in surprise . Are you kidding me? I just gave him something real, and he gives me the most obvious, surface-level answer? Anger flares in my chest, hot and sudden. Is this all a game to him? Two can play at that.

He notices my frustration and, of course, his smirk returns. “So, when do we start our lessons?”

I want to tell him to shove it, but instead, I take a deep breath and flip to a random page in the textbook. “We start now.”

My heart races as I glance at Rafael from the corner of my eye. My mind is a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts. Dad would have an aneurysm if he knew I was in this truck right now. Hell, he practically did when I told him I was tutoring Rafael last week. He’s deep into an investigation on Alfonso Moretti, Rafael’s dad, and when I mentioned the tutoring, he flipped out and forbade me from continuing. Absolutely not, Emilia! he’d thundered, face redder than a fire engine. That boy is trouble, just like his father!

But Dad’s wrong. God, he’s so wrong it’s almost funny. Rafael isn’t trouble like his dad—I know he’s not—despite what the gossip mill churns out.

I sneak another look at him. Sure, he’s got that bad boy vibe nailed down, but beneath that persona, he’s got more depth than people realize. Biting my lip, I think back to our study sessions. It’s not that he needs tutoring, per se. What he needs is someone to light a fire under his ass. Once he’s motivated? The guy’s actually brilliant. Like, “make-Einstein-look-slow” brilliant.

If only I could make Dad see that. But how do you convince a bullheaded detective that the son of his prime suspect isn’t the devil incarnate?

“What? See something you like?” Rafael’s cocky voice pulls me from my thoughts. That trademark smirk plays on his lips as he spares me a glance.

Heat creeps up my neck. Busted. “Oh my God, watch where you’re driving,” I deflect, scooting closer to the window and hugging it dramatically as I stare at the winter wonderland outside. Yep, because awkward is my specialty.

His rich chuckle fills the truck as we slowly pull up in front of my apartment. “We’re here anyway. See you tomorrow, piccola. ”

“I told you not to call me that,” I grumble, snatching my backpack from between my legs.

Unlocking the car door, I chance one last glance at him, and instantly regret it. Our gazes collide, and suddenly I’m drowning in those eyes again. Shit. Flustered, I practically tumble out of his truck.

I wave at him to go, but he just shrugs and leans back in his seat, looking infuriatingly comfortable. I roll my eyes as I spin around and climb up the front stairs, but inside I’m floating. The warmth I feel has nothing to do with my threadbare jacket and everything to do with the boy in the truck.

This is only the third time he has driven me home, but each time, he waits. Waits until I’m safely inside before leaving. As soon as the door shuts behind me, he honks and then drives off. It’s a small gesture, but it makes my heart do somersaults.

I bypass the perpetually broken elevators and trudge up the stairs to our sixth-floor apartment. By the time I reach our door, I’m wheezing while rummaging through my bag for my keys. Note to self: do cardio.

The apartment is eerily quiet when I enter. With a sigh, I flick on the TV for some semblance of life on my way to my room. There, homework gets neatly arranged on my desk—a habit Dad drilled into me—before I change into comfy clothes and return to the living room.

Our two-bedroom apartment is more like a sardine can with walls. The living room, kitchen, and dining area are one cramped space, everything squished together like a game of Tetris gone wrong.

I open the fridge, my stomach growling, and bite my lip at the barren shelves. Great. Time to go shopping again, only Dad’s been MIA for three days now and my pocket money is drying up fast.

“Guess it's a sandwich for dinner,” I mutter. A dinner for one. Again.

As I close the fridge, movement on the TV catches my eye. The camera pans across a crime scene, yellow tape fluttering in the wind. Another killing? I abandon my pathetic excuse for dinner and grab the remote, cranking up the volume.

“... Local detectives have been on the trail of this drug lord for the past year, and our sources tell us they believe the police were close to catching him. But something must have gone wrong because when the detective went to apprehend the suspect, he and his partner were ambushed and brutally killed. Police investigations are…”

The remote slips from my numb fingers as pictures of the killed detectives flash on the screen, my gaze honing straight onto that achingly familiar face on the right.

That’s my dad.

My Dad.

Dad.

No. No, no, no.

“ No .” Tears spill down my face as I stumble closer to the TV, desperately trying to make sense of the horror before me. The room feels like it’s spinning, and my legs give out beneath me. I can’t breathe, my hands shaking, reaching out like they can somehow touch the image and pull him out of that frozen frame. He’s not dead. He’s not dead. He can’t be dead.

“Dad?” I choke out, the word a broken whisper. But the truth stares back at me from that grainy news photo, and suddenly, my world just crumbles to dust around me.

My dad is gone.