Half past two in the morning, Deputy Malik Thompson remained hunched over his desk, eyes fixed on the documents spread before him. The office was silent, local law enforcement memorabilia winking at him from their perch upon the yellowing walls. He stifled a yawn. The weight of this case—that should've been closed—was really starting to bear down on him. His fingers traced the edges of a photograph. The victim, Hillary Berkshire. Her face was frozen in a moment of conflicting despair. Next to it lay the autopsy report from another victim, Nicole Livingston. Ten years ago, her death had also occurred on this very same campus.

Maria J. Westwood Correctional Facility.

Officially ruled a suicide by hanging, Livingston's autopsy report noted incredibly deep lacerations and a fractured rib that did not fit with a self-inflicted hanging. Apropos of that, there was another student, Elias Bradford, that had been sentenced with defiling her corpse; however, it was clear to Malik's laymen eyes that these injuries did not occur post-mortem. His skepticism regarding the official story was only growing stronger.

He set aside the Livingston file and picked up a stack of recent records from the school. This investigation had already hit several roadblocks, requests for financial documents yielding incomplete and heavily redacted papers. The administration provided excuses, citing bureaucratic red tape and high-volume requests—which didn't make a whole lot of sense given the secluded nature of the institution. It was becoming increasingly clear that someone was obstructing his efforts.

Worse yet, Malik noticed even more alarming inconsistencies among the records. Several M.J.W. graduates had criminal histories that were somehow mysteriously wiped clean. His eyes skittered, back and forth, back and forth, as he cross-referenced student names with old police reports and social service files.

There was so much here. How could anyone have missed this?

Determined to dig deeper, Malik logged into the department's internal database from his desk, but his access was suddenly restricted. "What the hell," he muttered, trying his credentials once more, only to be met with a "Permission Denied" message. He tried several alternative routes, including accessing old backup files and network drives, but every attempt was thwarted by access restrictions.

Malik remembered something his uncle had mentioned once before: certain materials from older case files were kept in a back room at the department's substation—a forgotten storage area most deputies didn't even know existed. With no one in the office, Malik grabbed his coat and keys. He rode the coaster of adrenaline through the weary moonlit hours, driven by a sense of determination he had never felt before. His car stuttered to a halt outside the substation, a small building on the outskirts of their rural town in Lockwood, Pennsylvania. Dusty and hardly used, it served as a makeshift archive for bygone dossiers. Malik unlocked the door and stepped into the cool, musty air, the scent of aging paper and stale coffee greeting him.

He made his way through a narrow hallway, eventually reaching the storage room. It was cramped, lined with filing cabinets and boxes stacked high. Malik propped a small flashlight between his teeth as he flipped through folders. He finally found what he was looking for—reports marked with familiar names. Nicole Livingston, Olivia Harper, and so many others—over forty names!—but they were in surprisingly poor condition. There were pages missing, some deliberately torn or smeared with ink.

His heart raced as he examined the forms, catching sight of something peculiar. Many of the incident reports had unofficial scribblings in the margins—words like "not yet" and "close but no," along with cryptic, occult-like symbols. Some documents had been heavily annotated with what looked like a tally of attempts—attempts at what?—and notes regarding "Lunar Thresholds" and "Celestial Barriers."

What . . . the . . . hell . . . ?

The scrawling continued, including dates and locations. Some kept a diligent record of lunar cycles—paying particular attention to a red moon—while others featured crude sketches of the campus, asterisks scratched in different areas. The drawing included intersecting lines, connecting the five buildings of Maria J. Westwood.

He dropped the paper, recognizing the shape immediately: a pentagram.

The locations marked at each point of the star corresponded with incidents of death.

As Malik studied the footnotes, the meticulous and ritualistic nature of the markings became apparent. His chest stirred with unease. He quickly jotted down case numbers, taking cell phone pictures of the most critical documents. Given the obstruction he'd already faced, he knew for a fact that couldn't trust this department. All of this evidence needed to be presented to an external agency, immediately.

Outside the storage room, muffled voices emerged.

Malik froze.

Someone else was in the substation.

Quietly gathering his materials, he slipped out the back door, careful to avoid any detection, and hurried to his car. It was starting to feel like sleep would never claim him, as though he could run on the crackling energy of discovery indefinitely. Back in the main office, Malik took a seat in his small cubicle, heart still pounding. This coverup was far more extensive than he had anticipated, implicating not just a few individuals, but potentially high-ranking officials in both his department and the school. He had to be cautious. As he started preparing a detailed report of his findings—documenting evidence of obstruction, inconsistencies in suicide autopsies, and suspicious financial transactions—one troubling thought kept gnawing at him:

Could his uncle be involved?

◢✥◣

Driving the policewoman's vehicle, Dorian Matthews navigated the dimly lit streets, his focus split between the road and the woman beside him. Emma slept in the passenger seat, her head resting against the car window, her chest rising and falling to the rhythm of deep, unguarded sleep. She was still wearing his clothes—a loose shirt and a jacket that draped over her, making her appear smaller than she was. The sight of it stirred something in him. He couldn't help but steal glances, an odd sense of calm settling over him despite the chaos they were driving toward.

Every so often, the drab streetlights along these barren roads would cast a glow over her face, illuminating the sharp angles of her cheekbones, the delicate curve of her lips. Her tousled hair framed her face, making her look almost serene. But Dorian knew better. He knew the madwoman that lay beneath, the force of nature wrapped in flesh and bone. His gaze lingered on her at every stop sign, tracing the lines of her neck, the way her collarbone teased from beneath the oversized shirt. There was nothing fragile about her. Every inch of her was magnetic, exuding a power that was both unflinching in the face of danger and impossible to ignore.

He would have to at least try to ignore it though. For now, anyway. While he had to admit, Emma was the perfect person to have at his side during all of this, the mission before them was daunting, with no clear path forward. Saving Rayne? Destroying a demon? There was no way to know where to begin. And although Emma was powerful, she was still human, with a heart that bled for those she loved. The way she had already thrown herself into this mission, sacrificing everything for Rayne? She had given up enough. And it was time for her to go home.

Dorian rubbed the plains of his chest. The echoes of a strange connection, an almost-forgotten telepathy with his deceased twin brother, had slowly begun flickering back to life. The sensation was unsettling, yet unmistakable. He wished he could see Daniel again somehow, the way that Emma could, but all he had were these flickers of emotion. And right now, they were telling him one thing with terrifying certainty:

If Emma Scott stepped foot near that cursed school again, she would die.

And Dorian knew, with a clarity that frightened him, that he could not let that happen.

◢✥◣

When Pierce and Spencer headed back to their respective dorms, Rayne and Lucas remained in the shack. They had offered Spencer a place to stay beside them—a united front against the shadow people—but he chose the predictable comfort of his routine instead. And so, again, here they were . . . all alone.

The evening air was saturated with the scent of abandonment—a blend of old wood and the faint tang of smoke, mingling with the sweet, ephemeral scent of freshly fallen leaves that crept in through the cracks of the walls. Rayne leaned against the wooden table, her finger absently tracing the grooves in the grain.

Across the room, Lucas reclined on the dusty old sofa. His body could have been a study in relaxed elegance. However, it appeared as though it belonged to someone else—a person untouched by grief, or guilt, or the weight of secrets. One foot rested on the threadbare green cushions, and the other hung loosely over the edge. His bronzed face, bathed in the warm, flickering glow of firelight, appeared almost ethereal—half-angelic, half-haunted, as if he existed somewhere between light and shadow.

Lucas was lost in a leather-bound notebook he had perched on his knee, its pages filled with poetry that seemed to pour from his soul with quiet desperation. Remnants of the day's formality still clung to him—a pale blue dress shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, his vest and blazer in a heap on the floor. The firelight danced over his face, each flicker seeming to reveal a new piece of him, like the shards of a shattered mirror reflecting different faces. He was a puzzle, beautiful and utterly broken, and Rayne couldn't look away.

Noticing her watching him, Lucas said, "I see you're still wearing Cole's jacket."

Rayne shrugged, startled from her reverie. She hadn't even noticed. Although, she was now acutely aware of Cole's faint scent still lingering in the fabric.

"That piece you recited for Hillary's memorial," she began, deliberately ignoring his comment. "It was beautiful. Did you write it?"

Lucas nodded.

"And the one in Mr. Matthews class," she pressed. "You wrote that one too?"

Another nod, though this time his eyes flickered with something. Reluctance? Regret?

"You said something about screams," she began, trying her best to recite it from memory, "forever ringing in your ears?" Rayne leaned in slightly. "Does that poem have anything to do with why you're here?"

"Can we not do this," he replied, turning his attention back to his book.

"Lucas," she began carefully, "are you . . . mad at me? For finding Hillary? For holding that knife?"

His pencil stilled, ever so slightly, before he continued writing. He released the tension from his jaw. "No, Rayne," he said quietly. "I'm not mad at you for that."

"Then, what is it? You've been distant. Ever since—"

"You never told me you kissed Cole."

Rayne's eyes widened, her composure momentarily cracking. That's what this was about? She hadn't expected such honesty, such vulnerability beneath the sharp edges. A part of her admired it, but another part of her bristled against it. "What does that have to do with anything?"

He lowered his voice. "I saw the look on your face when we watched that video. You weren't surprised to see Cole's uncle. Almost as if . . . you knew."

"Lucas—"

"You're keeping things from me," he said, this time, turning to meet her eye.

"Well, so are you," she countered, and he tossed his frustrated gaze back into his journal. "Lucas," she pressed, "I am tired of this. The distance. The mystery. The secrecy. All the wondering. I told you why I'm here, what I did. I never kept that from you. But you won't tell me anything about you. I know nothing about your family, your past, your—"

A deep sigh escaped his lips. "I don't want to keep secrets from you. It's just—"

"Then tell me!" Rayne urged, stepping closer. "Just tell me, Lucas, and I promise, I will tell you everything."

His eyes grew distant. For a moment, the tension in his shoulders eased just enough for her to see the boy he used to be—the boy who had carried the weight of the world long before he should have.

"It was a car accident," he confessed, taking his time to find the right words. Rayne stood perfectly still, yearning to sit beside him but fearful any sudden movements would scare him away. "You really wanna know why I'm here?" he said, his voice low, his eyes even lower. "Car accident. Freshman year. The seniors pulled me into their group. They couldn't have cared less about me—they just wanted to be closer to the Abbott name." He paused, his face tightening with pain. "There was a party, and . . . they pressured me to drink. A lot. I thought I needed to impress them. I didn't realize they were the ones who needed me. I was so young.

"So I just . . . drank and drank and drank, until everything blurred. I don't even remember getting behind the wheel." His voice cracked, and he turned away, unable to meet her eyes. "And just like that"—he snapped his fingers—"they were all gone, and I . . . I was the only one who survived the crash. I killed them. All of them. Just like the drunkard who killed my parents."

The confession hung heavy in the air. Rayne felt it in her bones, the guilt, the sorrow, the desperate need for redemption that she, too, knew all too well.

He continued, "Those kids . . . Their families were powerful. The scandal would have destroyed the foundation without proper compensation, so . . . my grandfather needed to make amends. Quickly. He almost threw me in jail. At fifteen years old. If it weren't for my grandmother, that's probably where I'd be. Instead, she convinced him to send me here. I still have to take over the business one day after all." He snapped his journal closed, as if he could silence the ghosts that haunted him. "And that's why everyone hates me here. Some of the people I killed were their friends . . ."

"Lucas . . ." Her heart ached. She wanted to reach out, to touch him, to offer something more than words, but she hesitated, her own fear holding her back. Compassion like this was foreign to her—it felt dangerous, like an open wound that would never heal. What could she say that wouldn't feel so hollow?

Instead, she settled on a simple, poignant truth. The only secret she had left to share.

"Lucas, I . . . I can read minds."

◢✥◣

Deputy Malik Thompson poured over the connections he could hardly begin to untangle. He took a sip of cold coffee. The quiet of the witching hour was suddenly shattered by the shrill ringing of his cell phone. He answered it with a wary tone. "Deputy Thompson."

"Deputy," the voice slurred on the other end of the line. "I—I need to talk to you."

"Who is this?"

"H-Henry MacGowan," the voice said, and Malik recognized the name: he was the on-site psychiatrist at Maria J. Westwood. The voice on the line chuckled. "I'm sorry, I—I'm a bit . . . well, more than a bit inebriated right now," he admitted. "But I can't keep this to myself any longer. You just . . . You . . . After the student—"

"Dr. MacGowan, it's late. Should we have this call in the morning?"

"I— There's something you need to know . . . a-about Dr. Shaw."

Malik's interest piqued. "Dr. Shaw. Is this a colleague of yours?"

"Monica. Monica Shaw. It's just . . . that student. I had a session. The student, she said something strange the night Hillary died. She said Monica Shaw 'vanished into the trees.' " MacGowan's voice was barely intelligible, his words marked with hiccups and uneven breaths. "And you see, I can't stop thinking about it. Thinking I could've done something about it. Now, Hillary's dead. Another one. Could've done something 'bout that, too."

Another?

Depending on how long he had worked there, this man would obviously be familiar with the history of strange deaths on campus. Malik was fed up with redacted files. He needed to talk straight to a source. "What are you saying, sir? You think this student's statement might be important?"

"Yes! Yes, of course!" he insisted. "Monica wouldn't leave. The school said she left, but she wouldn't leave. I know she wouldn't."

More cover-ups . . . ?

"Please. You have to search the woods. I can't . . . I can't do it myself. If I . . . found her . . . I wouldn't . . . I couldn't take it," he cried. "Please."

Malik's mind raced. "Thank you for the tip, doctor. I'll be in touch."

"Deputy, please. Don't let this one slip through the cracks."

Malik promised and hung up the phone, his brow furrowing. The psychiatrist's drunken ramblings seemed disjointed, but the urgency in his voice had been genuine. His gut told him so. Hoping for a swift resolution, Malik decided to call his uncle, Sheriff Terrence Williams. And perhaps, part of him hoped he could hear his uncle's innocence through the call.

He dialed the sheriff's number and waited through a few rings before his uncle's groggy voice answered.

"Terrence, it's Malik. Just got a call from Dr. MacGowan at Maria J. Westwood. He mentioned a student's statement—something about one of the faculty disappearing. He's insisting we search the area."

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. "Malik, it's the middle of the night. The woods aren't exactly a priority right now."

"Uncle Terrence, this could be a lead in the Berkshire case—"

"Berkshire's case is closed, son." The sheriff's voice hardened. "We've got other resources to consider. We can't go chasing every wild goose in the middle of the night."

"I understand," he said, but really, his uncle's reluctance disturbed him. "But sir, I think it's worth investigating. We should at least conduct a preliminary search."

There was another pause, and Malik could almost hear the internal struggle in his uncle's voice. "Fine. But you're on your own. And I want a full report on your findings. Remember, this is just a preliminary check. No unnecessary risks."

"Understood," Malik replied, feeling a mixture of relief and suspicion.

After ending the call, Malik's suspicion deepened. The sheriff's hesitancy seemed strange, and Malik couldn't shake the feeling that there was something more at play. As he prepared for the search, he reviewed the details again, his thoughts a whirl of questions and concerns. Whatever secrets the woods held, Malik was determined to uncover them.

And it could not wait until morning.

◢✥◣

The autumn air was frigid against Emma Scott's face as she stepped out of the car, the familiar scent of pine mingling with the faint aroma of distant rain. She clutched Dorian's jacket tighter around her body, but it wasn't warmth she was seeking—it was armor. The motel lights flickered weakly, casting dim halos that barely pierced the surrounding darkness. Behind her, Dorian's footsteps crunched the gravel as he followed her to the door.

The day had been a whirlwind, adrenaline propelling her forward, but now exhaustion clawed at her bones. Dorian had convinced her that it was time for her to return home, and technically, Emma had agreed. But . . . Rayne could've died that night. She could've killed someone that night. How could Emma walk away now?

She paused, her hand hovering over the key in the lock, and turned to face Dorian. "What about your clothes?" she asked, her voice rougher than intended.

He shrugged, his lips twitching into a half-smile. "Keep them. It's fine."

Emma glanced down at herself, at the oversized shirt that carried his scent—crisp apple sweetness, zesty citrus, and a subtle green note that suggested a clean, open space. A faint hint of spice added a touch of sensuality, like the soft glow of a candle flickering in a darkened room . . .

She wasn't supposed to be here, draped in his smell.

She should have taken it off . . . She didn't want to.

"I can't leave her," said Emma, more to herself. Rayne Foster needed her. Emma had found her in that darkness, seen the real Rayne when no one else did. Emma never lost sight of her. She fought for her, stood by her side when everyone else turned their backs—Rayne's own mother included.

But now, there were the calls from home—the angry voice of her husband echoing in her ears, accusing her of abandonment. He wasn't wrong. But he also didn't understand. How could he? Even if their marriage hadn't been hanging by a thread, who would believe that a demon was killing people using children's hands? Honestly, she didn't have the energy to confront him about his affair, let alone some strange, impending, occultish doom. There were just too many battles, and she was tired of fighting them all.

"I'll look after Rayne," Dorian promised, pulling her back to the present. His tone was firm, reassuring. "You have to go. Your sons need you."

The mention of her boys hit her like a ton of bricks, and she clenched her fists to keep herself together. She hadn't forgotten them, not entirely, but Rayne's survival had consumed her for a while there. Shame seared the bridge of her nose, an acute flame that burned fiercely, creeping into the hollows under her eyes. She met Dorian's gaze, refusing to let it show.

"Thank you," she said.

"For what?"

"Believing me." Emma paused, the words catching in her throat before she could push them out. "And . . . for thinking of my children . . . when I couldn't. They deserve better."

Dorian shook his head, a soft chuckle escaping him.

Emma frowned. "Why are you laughing?"

"It's just . . . absurd," he replied, his tone light, though anchored by the weight of his eyes on hers. "You're an amazing mother. Look at you. Everything you've done for Rayne, and she's not even yours. You're kind and generous. You're strong, relentless . . . powerful."

"Powerful?" she echoed, a wry brow arched.

He grinned, eyes falling to the ground. "Well," he began, stepping toward her, "you did pull a gun on me once."

Emma rolled her eyes. "You know"—she also, stepped forward—"I'm startin' to think you kinda liked it with how often you keep bringin' that up."

"Maybe I did," he admitted, his smile breaking into a grin that he tried to tame by biting his lip. His expression softened. "You're just . . . You're incredible, Emma."

She would've been lying if she said she didn't notice the way his pale blue eyes lingered on her lips. Emma took a breath.

This man was eight years her junior.

And she had a husband waiting for her at home.

Stop it, she scolded herself. But her resolve faltered when she saw a rather contemplative determination flicker his irises. The soft lines of his face and the slight parting of his lips held a quiet, almost scholarly intensity. There was a weight to his gaze, a measured stillness that seemed to defy the chaos around them. He was standing so close now, and there was something in his expression that tugged at her, something that made her forget the weight of her crumbling marriage, the guilt gnawing at her insides, or even the demon lurking in the halls of Maria J. Westwood.

"What are you thinking about?" she asked softly, but before she could blink, Dorian had already leaned in, closing his eyes. The world seemed to still, the night air swirling around them. She gasped.

It was a kiss, delicate and sweet, placed on the warmth of her blushing cheek.

It was the kind of kiss that demanded nothing and held everything—gentle, almost reverent, as though afraid of breaking something fragile. And yet, it stirred a blaze in her chest that Emma had not felt in years. As Dorian's lips lingered over her cheek, deliberately, withdrawing ever so slowly, Emma began to count the heartbeats hammering the walls of her breast through the fabric of his shirt. He had finally pulled back enough to open his eyes, and when they met hers, there was a shared sense of surprise . . . and a burning question, resting in the air between them.

It was unspoken. But the answer was deafeningly loud in its silence.

"Drive safe," he whispered sweetly, stepping back and into the night.

◢✥◣

Somewhere off the California coast, the Bradford family beach house sat quietly, moonlight pouring through little Lainey's bedroom window, making the floor look like a giant checkerboard. Something stirred her to wake. A dark shape slithered over the squares of luminescence on the carpet. Lainey rolled over, expecting to see her daddy. But it wasn't him.

It was the faker.

His smile stretched big, way too big, bigger than her daddy's smile, and those green eyes gleamed like a swarm of fireflies—brighter than any nightlight. "Hello, my sweet," it whispered, twisting her daddy's mouth.

Lainey rubbed her eyes and sat up, feeling the room get colder. It smelled funny too, like burnt matches and something worse, something rotten. She really missed her daddy. But she didn't feel scared of the faker. Maybe she should have. "What do you want now?"

He chuckled, soft and low. "What I've always wanted." He drew nearer, his presence darker, like his shadow was eating up all of the light. Next to her bedside table, he picked up her sketchbook, her daddy's fingers moving in a way that didn't look right. They seemed too long, too fluid, too smooth. Flipping through the pages, his eyes illuminated her drawings in a ghastly way. "Your power," he breathed, as if savoring the thought.

"You can't have it."

"Oh, but I will," he challenged, standing to his full height, taller than her daddy ever seemed. He moved to the window, walking in that weird way that made Lainey's stomach twist. With a quick flick, he opened the window, and the sound of the ocean crashed into the room—violent, monstrous, like some big scary beast roaring in the dark. "You asked if I missed it," he said, gazing out at the black sea. The faker inhaled deeply, the scent of salt and decay filling his lungs. "I do."

"Then why don't you go back?"

"To the sea?"

"You're stronger out there," she whispered, clutching her blanket.

"I am," he admitted, a mean grin curling her daddy's lips. "But that's why I need you."

"Do you really need me? Or just Rayne?"

The faker paused, turning his head slowly toward her, eyes unblinking. He sighed. "Ah, yes. You know so much, little one. But do you know what you're capable of? The things you could do?" His voice fell, a dark whisper that seemed to wrap around her like a serpent, squeezing so, so tightly. "Back when the sea was my home, the greediest men left everything behind—abandoning their families in search of gold, treasure, blood . . . and conquest. Pirates, sailors, colonizers—driven by insatiable hunger. You could find them out there," he said, nodding toward the crashing waves beyond the window, "at sea, chasing fortune and glory. But now . . . greed wears a different mask. It hides behind glass towers and corporate empires. It's subtle. Silent. It destroys in ways the old greed never could."

Lainey glanced at the sketchbook in his hand. "Is that why you're here?"

His smile faded. "I'm here for something far more valuable than men who lust for gold."

"You won't get him," she whispered suddenly, a sharp edge to her voice. "Not like Uncle Eli. You can't have him. My Cole is strong."

"You're right about that." The faker's tone softened with an unsettling calm. "You and your brother are . . . special. I cannot compel you. Not like your daddy, here," he said, tapping her daddy's temple. "Very few souls are strong enough to resist me. But the bond you share? It protects each other. Thanks to you, anyway. Thanks to your powers."

A dark flicker crossed his eyes.

The faker stepped closer, and the air around her felt heavy. "I know you've been speaking with him, little one," he hissed. "You and that boy. You think you can plot behind my back?"

He was referring to the man with glowing blue eyes.

Lainey had no reason to lie. Her small frame trembled, but her gaze did not waver. She was brave. "Why don't you just kill me?" she asked, and even though she knew it was too bold for someone so little to say, the words left her lips before she could stop them.

The faker scoffed, a dark humorless laugh escaping him. "Kill you?" He shook his head, stepping even closer, his breath cold against her skin. "If I kill you, your power will fall into the wrong hands. And I need you on the right side of this war, little one. So I will wait . . . and you will be mine." His voice dropped to a chilling whisper, her daddy's smile stretching wider than ever. "Soon enough."

◢✥◣

The darkness that surrounded Rayne and Lucas was accented by the shifting of firelight along weathered walls. His eyes never left hers, but Rayne could sense the storm behind those amber eyes, a tempest held at bay by the fragile space between them. The crackling of fire popped against the dull thrum of the wind outside. But no warmth, not even the glow of flames, could quell the chill that settled in Rayne's bones.

"What do you mean 'read minds'?" he finally asked. He pushed himself up from the sofa, his journal slipping from his hand, forgotten, as he took slow, measured steps towards her.

Rayne swallowed. She had never dared to reach into the depths of his mind, had never probed the hidden corners of his thoughts—never on purpose, anyway. So how could he know? The object of her frequent mental violations, Cole Bradford, had pieced together this truth about her all on his own. But Lucas —Lucas had no reason to suspect this, no reason to fear the silent invasions of her mind. And until now, Rayne had never needed to admit it out loud. Not even to herself. Not like this. But it was true—she could read minds. And now that truth hung between them, both fragile and terrifying.

"Everything holds memories," she explained slowly. "People, animals . . . walls. All I have to do is touch them." She reached out, her fingers brushing against his, delicate as whispers.

His hand was warm, though rougher than she'd expected, like he'd spent years building walls around him, stone by stone. When she closed her eyes, the flood of memories hit her like a wave, pulling her under. She gasped, overwhelmed by the depth of his past, his pain. Glimpses of a woman with silver hair, her face lined with age and wisdom, swarmed her mind. Lucas's grandmother. Rayne took her time describing the woman so Lucas would know that she could see her, vividly. Her presence was a steady pillar of strength in his life, her voice a compass during his darkest hours, always calling him her "sweet, sunny boy."

Rayne opened her eyes and found Lucas staring at her, his expression unreadable.

"That's why I kissed him," she confessed, the words slipping from her lips like a sin. It was a wicked thing to say out loud, but it was the truth. She looked down, afraid to meet his gaze, but then forced herself to look up. "I was searching . . . for something. And I found it. A vision of him learning about his uncle. What he did to that girl. And I pieced everything else together . . ."

"That's how you knew?"

Rayne nodded, her heart pounding in her chest. "You're taking this rather well," she remarked, trying to ease the tension.

Lucas glanced around, his eyes sweeping over the shadows that seemed to shift and whisper in the corners of the room. "Look where we are," he murmured. "This is the most believable thing that's happened this week."

Rayne looked down at Cole's jacket, its fabric suddenly oppressive on her shoulders. Without a word, she shrugged it off, letting it slip to the floor. The cool air kissed the bareness of her skin, but Lucas's gaze—summery and earnest—was all the warmth she needed.

"What're you doing?" he asked, his eyes tracing the curve of her shoulders, exposed and vulnerable in that little black dress.

"I don't want you to get the wrong idea about me and Cole."

Lucas swallowed hard, the movement drawing her eyes to the taut line of his throat, the way his open shirt framed the tense rise and fall of his chest. "Why would that matter?"

"Doesn't it?" she asked softly, closing the space between them. The warmth radiating from him seemed to reach out to her, drawing her in like a moth to a flame. She found herself studying his lips, noticing the slight parting as he exhaled, slow and unsteady, before her gaze flicked back to his eyes. "Could it?"

Lucas sighed then, his eyes darkening with something cathartic, a truth he would never be able to take back. "I think it always has," he murmured, his voice raw, barely above a whisper. He cursed under his breath, and she almost thought he might turn away. Instead, he reached for her with a desperate tenderness, his touch both hesitant and fervent as he pulled her closer. He stopped just shy of kissing her, the heat of his mouth teasing her.

"What are you waiting for?" she whispered, her breath ghosting his lips. The space between them felt like it could shatter at any moment, and all she wanted to do was close the distance.

Lucas's breath hitched, his eyes fluttering closed. He tried to steady himself against the reckless abandon of youth. He leaned in close enough for their foreheads to rest against each other. The blaze of his skin sent shivers down her spine, and she closed her eyes too, letting herself get lost in the sense of him—his presence, his warmth, the way his breathing faltered as he tried to control himself.

"We can't," he whispered, his voice so soft, so full of longing and regret.

Rayne's hand slipped up his neck, her fingers finding the pulse that raced beneath his skin, wild and uneven, matching the frantic rhythm of her own.

"We can't," he whispered once more.

She wasn't sure who he was trying to convince—himself or her. Her hand wandered, and she could feel the tension, the way his throat moved as he swallowed his desire, his guilt. She could feel every ounce of restraint in him, every battle he fought within himself to keep from falling apart. And still, she whispered back, "I know."

But before either of them could bridge the gap between longing and reality, the door to the shack burst open with a heavy crash! A deputy stood in the doorway, flanked by four security guards, their expressions unyielding as they stepped into the flickering firelight. The cold air rushed in, sweeping away the heat of the moment and leaving nothing but the echo of an almost-kiss . . . and the harsh reminder of the world outside.