Mine to Wreck (Dark Obsessive Stalker Romance #9)

1. Eve

EVE

AGE SEVEN

The smell of cinnamon donuts and wood smoke drifts through the crisp October air as I clutch Mama's hand, my new patent leather shoes crunching through fallen leaves.

The Wintervale Fall Festival stretches across the town square like something from a storybook—white tents fluttering in the breeze, pumpkins stacked in orange pyramids, and the sound of fiddle music floating from a small stage where grown-ups tap their feet.

"Go on, baby girl," Mama says, giving my shoulder a gentle nudge. "Make some friends."

I smooth down my yellow dress—the one with tiny flowers that Mama pressed extra careful this morning—and take a deep breath. The air tastes like apples and promises, nothing like the city smells I'm used to. Everything here feels different. Smaller. Like everyone belongs except me.

A group of kids my age clusters around the apple bobbing station, their laughter bright as the autumn sunshine.

I recognize some faces from my new classroom at St. Agnes Elementary, where I've spent exactly three weeks trying to figure out where I fit.

Mrs. Henderson keeps introducing me as "our new student from Boston," like I'm some exotic creature instead of just a girl whose daddy got transferred to run the lumber mill.

I square my shoulders and walk toward them, practicing my smile. Mama always says a smile opens every door.

"Hi," I say to a girl with pigtails who looks friendly enough. "Can I play too?"

She glances at her friends, then back at me. "I guess. You're the new girl, right? Eve?"

"That's me." My smile widens, hope blooming in my chest like the marigolds Mama planted by our front porch.

"Well, you can't go first," says a boy with freckles and a gap-toothed grin. "You have to earn your turn."

"How do I do that?" I ask, tilting my head.

"Easy," comes a voice from behind me, low and slightly scratchy like he's been yelling. "You tell us why you think you're better than everyone else."

I spin around and find myself staring at a boy with sandy hair that looks like he ran his fingers through it and forgot to smooth it down.

His clothes are clean but worn—jeans with a patch on one knee, a flannel shirt that's probably a hand-me-down.

But it's his eyes that catch me off guard.

They're the color of the lake behind our new house, that deep blue-green that looks pretty from far away but turns murky up close.

He's got his arms crossed, chin tilted up like he's ready for a fight, and something about his stance makes my stomach flutter with nerves.

"I don't think I'm better than anyone," I say quietly, tucking a curl behind my ear. "I just wanted to play."

"Sure you do." He steps closer, and I notice he's taller than the other kids, probably older too. "With your fancy dress and your fancy shoes and your fancy way of talking. Bet you've never even been to a real festival before."

Heat crawls up my neck. "I have too been to festivals. We had them in Boston all the time."

"Boston." He says it like it tastes sour. "Course you're from Boston. Probably lived in some big house with servants and everything."

"We did not have servants," I protest, my voice getting higher. The other kids have gone quiet, watching like we're some kind of show. "We lived in an apartment and Mama did all the cooking and cleaning herself."

"Oh, so sorry, sweetheart. An apartment." He rolls his eyes, and something mean flickers across his face. "Still makes you a city girl who thinks she's gonna waltz in here and have everyone falling at her feet."

My cheeks burn now, hot enough that I probably look like a tomato. "I never said that. I just wanted to make friends."

"By showing off your perfect little dress and acting like you know a thing about how we live?" He circles me now, like a wolf I saw in a picture book once. "What are you, some kind of goody-two-shoes?"

The words hit me like a slap. Back home, being good was something to be proud of.

Mama bragged to her church friends about how I always minded my manners, always shared my toys, always helped with chores without being asked.

But the way this boy says it makes "good" sound like the worst thing a person could be.

"There's nothing wrong with being good," I whisper, but my voice shakes.

"There is when you're fake about it." His mouth twists into something that might be a smile if smiles could cut. "Bet you go home and tell your mama about all the 'nice' kids you met today, when really you think we're all a bunch of backwards mountain kids who don't know any better."

"I do not!" The words burst out of me louder than I intended, and suddenly every eye at the festival feels like it's turned our way. My face flames hotter, but I plant my feet and glare right back at him. "You don't know anything about me."

"I know enough." He shrugs, but there's something sharp in his expression, like glass catching sunlight. "I know girls like you. All sweetness and light until someone doesn't give you exactly what you want."

"You're mean," I say, and my voice cracks on the word. Tears threaten at the corners of my eyes, but I blink them back hard. I won't cry in front of this horrible boy. I won't.

"And you're a fake," he shoots back. "At least I'm honest about what I am."

We stare at each other across three feet of space that feels like a canyon. His jaw is set hard, those blue-green eyes stormy as winter clouds, and everything about him screams "stay away." But underneath all that anger, I catch something else. Something that looks almost like hurt.

The fiddle music swells behind us, cheerful and bright, completely at odds with the tension crackling between us like static electricity. The other kids shift uncomfortably, probably wishing they'd never started this conversation.

"Nash Callahan," says an older girl with authority in her voice. "Quit being a pill and leave the new girl alone."

Nash. So that's his name. It fits him somehow, sharp and quick like the way he talks.

"I'm just being friendly," Nash says, but his tone suggests anything but friendship. "Getting to know our new neighbor."

"Well, you can get to know her without being a complete jerk about it."

Nash's cheeks flush, but he doesn't back down. Instead, he looks me up and down one more time, taking in every detail of my carefully pressed dress and neatly braided hair.

"Welcome to Wintervale, sweetheart," he says finally, and the nickname drips with sarcasm. "Hope it's everything you dreamed of."

Then he turns and stalks away, hands shoved deep in his pockets, leaving me standing there with my heart hammering and my face on fire.

The girl with pigtails touches my arm gently. "Don't mind Nash. His mom works all the time and he's... well, he's angry about stuff. It's not really about you."

But it feels like it's about me. Every word he said, every look he gave me, felt personal as a pinprick.

I watch his retreating figure disappear into the crowd, noting the way other kids automatically step aside to let him pass. Like they're all a little afraid of him too.

"Can I still play?" I ask quietly, smoothing my skirt with trembling hands.

"Course you can," the friendly girl says. "I'm Sarah, by the way."

"Eve," I reply, though my voice sounds hollow to my own ears.

As I kneel by the tub of murky water, preparing to bob for apples like a proper festival participant, I can't shake the image of Nash's face. All that anger, all that hurt, wrapped up in a boy barely older than me.

He called me a goody-two-shoes like it was the worst insult he could think of. But as I plunge my face toward the floating apples, I can't help wondering what made a boy like Nash decide that being good was something worth attacking.

The water is shockingly cold against my cheeks, but not nearly as cold as the look in Nash Callahan's eyes.

Sarah's apple bobs to the surface with a satisfying splash, water dripping from her chin as she grins triumphantly. "Got it!" She wipes her face with the back of her sleeve, leaving damp streaks across the cotton. "Your turn, Eve."

I kneel beside the wooden tub, grateful for something to focus on besides the lingering sting of Nash's words. The water reflects fractured pieces of sky and autumn leaves, distorting my face into ripples. I take a breath and plunge forward, but the apple slips away like it's mocking me.

"Don't worry," Sarah says, bouncing on her toes. "It takes practice. Oh! There's my best friend—Emma! Come meet Eve!"

A girl with wild red curls and grass stains on her overalls bounds over, all knobby knees and boundless energy. Her freckles are so dense they nearly connect across her nose, and when she smiles, it's like someone lit a firecracker behind her eyes.

"The new girl!" Emma plops down beside me without ceremony, her voice carrying that particular volume of someone who's never met a stranger. "Sarah told me about you in Sunday school. You're from Boston, right? That's so cool. I've never been anywhere bigger than Burlington."

"It's different there," I admit, trying again with the apple. This time my teeth catch the stem, and I emerge victorious, water streaming down my neck and soaking into my dress collar.

"Nice!" Emma claps like I've just performed some magnificent feat. "Want to come see the ring toss? I'm terrible at it, but they give out candy even if you lose."

Sarah loops her arm through mine with easy familiarity. "Emma's terrible at everything that requires coordination, but she's the best at finding four-leaf clovers and knowing which berries won't kill you."

"Hey!" Emma protests, but she's laughing. "I'm also excellent at getting into trouble and talking my way back out of it."

As we weave through the festival crowd, I find myself relaxing for the first time since arriving in Wintervale. These girls don't care that my dress is fancier than theirs or that I pronounce certain words differently. They just seem happy to have someone new to include in their adventures.