Chapter 1
SALEM
I wake up tangled in sheets that don’t smell like mine.
Warmth clings to my skin, heavy and stale, mixed with his cologne—rich, woody, the kind that’s supposed to smell expensive but just makes me think of whiskey breath and bad decisions.
The room’s too warm, the air thick with the ghost of last night’s sweat and sex.
Nathan’s bed.
Right.
The memory hits like a shot to the gut, and I let my eyes drift open slow, pretending for half a second that I don’t know where I am.
There’s the dark headboard, the expensive silk pillowcase under my cheek, and his shadow on the other side of the mattress.
His breathing is deep and even, like the devil gets to sleep peacefully after swallowing a soul.
My soul.
Or at least my dignity.
I shift, the sheet slipping down enough to remind me I’m naked underneath. My thighs are sore—no surprise there. I stretch just enough to feel the ache bloom before tucking my legs back in. Not because I’m shy. Just because I’m not ready to see him yet.
I slide out of bed like I’m trying to escape a crime scene—quiet, deliberate, no sudden movements. My feet hit the cold hardwood, and the temperature drop sends goosebumps racing up my bare legs. The sheet trails after me, clutched in one fist like it’s the only piece of armor I’ve got left.
Nathan doesn’t stir. Typical. He’s sprawled on his back, one arm over his head, tattoos curling up his ribs like they’re trying to climb into his chest. His mouth is parted just enough to show the edge of a smirk he was probably born with. The kind that makes girls ruin their lives.
I should throw something at him.
A pillow. A lamp. Myself.
Instead, I just stand there, watching him breathe.
God, he looks good like this—softened by sleep, jaw shadowed with stubble, lashes unfairly long for someone who’s made me cry twice in the past week. The problem is, I know what that face looks like awake. And smiling. And between my thighs.
“Stop staring,” I mutter under my breath, more to myself than to him.
I bend to grab my bra from the floor, the lace cold between my fingers. The rest of my clothes are scattered like breadcrumbs leading back to the door. My dress is draped over the chair, my underwear hooked on the bedpost like a trophy.
“Leaving so soon?”
His voice hits me from behind—low, rough, and smug in that just-woke-up way that makes it crawl under my skin. I freeze mid-step, one shoe in my hand, because of course he’s awake now.
I turn slowly, sheet still clutched around me like it’s a shield. He’s propped up on one elbow, eyes half-lidded but sharp, dragging over me like he’s cataloging every inch of bare skin I haven’t managed to cover.
“Don’t start,” I say, even though I haven’t decided if I mean it.
He grins, lazy and lethal, like he can hear the shift in my pulse from across the room. “Not starting anything. Just making conversation.”
Before I can answer, my phone buzzes on the nightstand. I lean over to grab it, the sheet slipping dangerously low as I swipe open the screen.
Miles
You in for tonight? Haunted hayride & corn maze. Jamie’s coming.
And don’t say no. You need fun.
I snort and set the phone down long enough to shove my foot into my sock. “Guess I’ve got plans.”
One brow arches. “Oh yeah?”
“Miles wants me to third-wheel him and his new date at the haunted hayride and corn maze.”
Nathan’s smirk tilts, knowing. “Yeah, he mentioned it to me yesterday.”
The words roll off his tongue lazy, like he’s got all the time in the world.
He’s still completely bare, the blanket pooled low around his hips, skin warm-toned and smooth over lean muscle.
His chest is broad, lightly dusted with hair, tapering to the hard lines of his stomach.
A shadow of stubble roughens his jaw, making him look like sin that just rolled out of bed.
His dark hair is mussed, curling slightly at the ends, like he’s been raking his fingers through it in his sleep, or maybe while watching me.
That makes me pause. “Why would he mention it to you?”
“Because he told me to drag you along if you tried to bail.” He sits up all the way now, the blanket sliding off his lap, completely unapologetic. “We should go.”
I stare at him, suspiciously. “Since when are you into hayrides?”
“Since they involve you, and me having an excuse to watch you get jump-scared in the dark.”
I roll my eyes, because anything else would be admitting I might actually consider it. “We’ll see.”
“Translation,” he says, leaning back with that infuriating grin, “you’ll be there. Besides, it could be fun.”
“Fun,” I echo, hooking the clasp of my bra behind my back.
“Yeah,” he replies, like it’s obvious. “Hayrides, cider… your friend trying to make some theatre guy fall in love with him? We’ll make a night of it.
” His gaze lingers, like he’s memorizing me in pieces.
Then he pushes off the bed, stretching. “I’m gonna grab a shower.
I have to be in the office early today for some meetings, and then I’ll pick you up later. Seven?”
“Seven,” I say, even though it feels like agreeing to something I can’t get out of.
He leans in, brushes his lips over my temple, squeezes my knee, and disappears down the hallway. A second later, water roars through the pipes.
I stand there a beat longer, the room smelling faintly of bergamot and his skin, before moving to gather the rest of my clothes.
I dress slowly—black jeans ripped at the knee, a sheer mesh-sleeved top under a faded oversized cardigan.
My boots are cracked at the soles, but I like them that way.
Worn, ruined, real. I smudge on a little black eyeliner with a shaky hand and smear red balm across my mouth, not because I care how I look, but because I need the war paint.
The necklace rests heavy against my chest, the same way it has every day since I was twelve.
A tooth set in black resin, framed in tarnished silver.
Finn found it for me in the forest half-buried in the dirt after a hunting trip with the elders.
Most kids would’ve thrown it away. He’d pressed it into my palm, blood from his knuckles still smeared across the enamel.
He knew I had this way of seeing beauty where no one else did, like something was wrong with me.
Where other people saw rot, I saw wonder.
Bones, teeth, feathers snapped mid-flight.
Dried petals falling apart in the dirt, flowers once bright now brittle and curling in on themselves.
Things that used to breathe, that used to bloom.
Beautiful once and now forgotten. Morbid, they called it.
But to me it was proof that even in decay, something could still matter.
So when he found the tooth in the forest, grinning like he’d discovered treasure he knew I’d want it, so, he pressed it into my palm like a secret. I mounted it, strung it, and wore it against my skin. I never took it off. Not once.
Now it’s more than bone. More than memory. It’s him. Always him. A vow around my neck I never broke, even when everything else fell apart.
My reflection doesn’t scare me anymore.
She cut her hair short. Wears rings on every finger. Keeps her smile tucked beneath her tongue like a blade. Her eyes are shadowed and older than they were a year ago. But she’s still me. Still alive.
Finn would’ve wanted that.
“Live for both of us, bonepetal.”
The nickname hits like a bruise wrapped in silk, tender, intimate, and full of rot.
My fingers tighten around the edge of Nathan’s dresser, the wood worn smooth beneath my grip.
Finn started calling me that the first time he caught me stringing tiny bone beads into a choker, weaving them between dried flower petals on my bedroom floor.
I’d shrugged, told him I liked pretty things with sharp edges.
He’d grinned, kissed my wrist, and said, “So, bonepetal it is.” Like it made perfect sense.
Like he saw straight through the darkness and still wanted the mess inside.
I shove the thought back down where all the others fester, right between grief and denial, and grab my bag.
Nathan’s still in the shower when I slip out, boots echoing down the narrow stairwell.
Outside, the October air slices against my cheeks, cool and sharp. The street is already draped in Halloween—jack-o’-lanterns on stoops, skeletons with plastic scythes leaning in doorways, black-and-orange bunting sagging between lampposts. Fallen leaves skitter across the pavement, crisp as paper.
On the corner, the café hums with soft jazz and the hiss of the espresso machine. Warm light spills through the windows, catching the steam rising from cups. The air inside smells like cinnamon, burnt sugar, and coffee strong enough to wake the dead.
“Morning, Salem,” the barista says, already reaching for a to-go cup. I’m here too often for them to bother asking my order anymore.
“Morning,” I say, sliding a few crumpled bills across the counter. My gloves are still cool from the outside air.
While they pour, I scan the chalkboard menu, today’s specials written in loopy handwriting beneath doodles of ghosts and candy corn. Couples in scarves murmur over pastries. A little kid in a witch costume stomps her rain boots on the mat while her mom tries to tie her hat back on.
I wrap my hands around the paper cup when it’s passed to me, letting the heat bleed into my fingers. The first sip is bitter, grounding.
Coffee in hand, I step back into the street.
The wind lifts my hair, tangling it across my cheek.
The town feels small in that postcard way—brick storefronts, peeling paint, the library’s stone steps worn from a hundred years of use.
But under the fall prettiness, there’s something else.
A weight in the air. The way shadows stretch a little too far.