3.

It's almost dawn and we've been walking for hours when he finally pushes me down next to a tree. I haven't stopped fighting him the whole way. And I won't either. Whatever his plans are, I'm not going togo along with them easily.

"If you're going to kill me, just get it over with," I say. "What are you waiting for?"

But he's not listening to me. His focus is on the forest around us, looking for something I can't see. He looks exactly the same as when I first saw him in the field last night. Black, swooping hair and wearing a spotless black jacket with a hood. His skin is pale, standing out in the night. I wonder how old he is—19, 20?

His eyes continue to scan the forest and I ask, "What are you—"

"Get up," he says. He grabs my wrist and pulls me to my feet. We continue on through the woods until we come into a clearing where a small house sits under the trees. The windows are dark and the grass is overgrown. Like a forgotten cabin.

I can't help but notice that his skin is still cold, even after walking for so long. If I think about it too long, my hands start to shake. So I don't think about it.

We walk onto the porch, covered in leaves and dirt. He kicks the door in on the first try and pulls me inside. The smell of dust and stagnate air is everywhere.

"I'm going to let go of you now, but if you try to run, just remember what happened last time."

His fingers slip from my wrist and he moves into the dark kitchen. I can only see shapes of furniture, but I know the door is somewhere behind me. I take a step backward and he doesn't seem to notice. The floor creaks but maybe he didn't hear it.

The cupboard doors slam shut and there's a flicker of light before he lights a candle. He glances at me once, making sure I'm still here, before opening the closest to look for something.

"Don't think I didn't notice that step back," he says, his voice muffled from behind the wall. I know it's foolish to try to run again, but it's my instinct. Everything about him screams fear into my blood and makes me want to run.

When I look up again, he's right in front of me.

"What are we doing here?" I ask, even though I know he won't answer.

And again, he doesn't. He just grabs my arm and pulls me into the next room, where a large bed sits neatly made. Whoever's house this is must plan on coming back. There's dust on the nightstand but only a thin layer.

Then it hits me that he's brought me into a bedroom.

I thought he was going to kill me—like that girl—but I didn't think of this. Anything but this.

"Wait—" I dig my heels into the carpet, trying to find something to grab onto or use as a weapon. But his strength still outmatches mine. He pushes me onto the bed and I start kicking him again, doing everything to get him away from me.

"Stop!" His hands hold me in place and I stop struggling, only hearing the sound of my breathing.

"I'm not going to do anything," he says. Then adds, "Unless you ask me to first."

A touch of a smile appears on his lips, like something is funny.

"Then why did you bring me here?" I ask. "What the hell do you want with me?"

He disappears for moment, coming back with the candle to set on the nightstand. After he shuts the door, he sits down in the chair in the opposite corner.

"So even murders need sleep, too?" I press myself against the wooden headboard, hating the way he's staring at me. The space between us isn't great enough.

"Everyone needs sleep, and we have a long day ahead of us tomorrow, especially at the rate we're going."
"Sorry, it's against my instinct to let you just take me willingly."

"Understandable," he mutters.

We stare at each other for a long time, past the point of being awkward. I don't know how much time passes until my eyes finally close and I drift off.

The next time I open my eyes, it's light out but the candle is still burning, spilling wax over the wooden nightstand. I glance over to my captor, finding him asleep in the chair, his head tilted to the side. I wait for awhile—making sure he's fully under until I touch my feet to the floor. He doesn't move, so I take a step forward. And then another.

When I reach the door, the floor creaks under my feet and I tense, waiting for him to wake up. But he doesn't so much as move. Sleeping there, so peaceful and still, I can almost make myself believe he didn't kidnap me or watched as those men killed that girl.

I open the door and his eyes snap open. Charcoal black and devilish. Before I even have the chance to run for it, he's slamming the door in my face. There's a rush of movement and my head spins like I'm suddenly on a roller coaster, going downhill with my stomach in my throat.

I open my eyes to find him inches from my face. His arms are pressing against mine, holding me to the bed.

It's the first time I really realize something is wrong with him. It scares me to see the truth, but it's there, more real than anything.

He's not breathing, nor is his body radiating any heat.

He has no heart beat. I should feel it through his wrists but it's not there. He is still as stone.

"What do I need to do to—" he stops in the middle of his sentence, his face changing from anger to something different. Something that scares me. He's staring at my neck, but only for a moment. When he locks eyes with me again, his mouth slowly curls up into a smile, showing me his teeth. And even as I watch, his canines slowly grow into fangs. "Are you scared of me?" he asks, inhaling deeply and then he shakes his head. "Of course you are."

I can't utter a word—only breathe and barely that. Until now, I never knew fear could literally freeze me in place. His fangs are so sharp they could pierce my skin in an instant. It's enough to make me tremble.

"Don't try to leave again," he says. "Only bad things will happen."

Somehow—by some force or strength I never knew I had—I push back my fear, finally able to think clearly.

"Go to hell," I tell him.

He glances at my throat again before pushing himself away, his fangs slowly disappearing. But the devilish smile still lines his lips. "I am, don't you worry."

When something crosses his face—the smile wavering—I realize the bad boy act is all that it is—an act. It's almost like he's used to playing with people but he's become tired of it.

I don't know why, but I'm less afraid of him. Even if it's just a little.

Even if he's something I don't believe exists.

With his eyes still locked on mine, he lowers himself in his chair again, watching me from across the room.

He opens his mouth, pauses, and then asks, "What happened to them? Your real parents."

"I don't know, I don't remember them. I was put up for adoption when I was three." I can't hide the bitterness in my voice. "Why do you even care? Or more importantly, what do you want with me? Are you ever going to answer my questions?"

He sighs but his chest stops at that—so inhuman. "It's interesting that you don't know anything of the world you're meant to be apart of."

None of what he's saying makes sense.

"Those others who were with you," I say. "Are they . . . like you?"

The boy smiles again. "A vampire? You saw what they did to that girl, so you already know the answer to that."

"Where are they?"

"I sent them on without me."

"Why?"

"Because I didn't want them to know about you," he says. "And enough questions for now. I don't even know why I'm telling you any of this." He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, looking away.

I lay down, pressing my cheek against the pillow. "Can I just ask you one more thing?"

"What?" He doesn't look at me.

"What's your name?"

He finally shifts his dark gaze, his eyes finding mine. "Jace."

My eyes are already heavy with sleep and I murmur, "I've always liked that name."

But he hears me anyway.

"What's yours?"

"Ashton."

I hear him whisper something but I'm too far gone to hear it.