Page 29

She’s not wrong.
Her hand moves toward the door, slow and deliberate, her pulse hammering beneath her skin. She’s going to slam it in my face.
I sigh. Humans. Before she can react, I extend a hand toward the small, potted plant sitting on the table beside her. It’s a fragile thing, green and thriving, something living in the middle of all this artificial sterility.
For a single moment, I let it exist. Then, with a flick of my fingers, I consume it. The plant doesn’t wither. It doesn’t rot. It simply ceases to be. The color drains first, leeching out like ink spilling into water. Then the form itself collapses inward, shrinking, vanishing, until there is nothing left but the faint scent of something burnt and wrong.
Layla inhales sharply. Her gaze snaps from the absence where the plant used to be, back to me, her expression frozen somewhere between horror and understanding.
“Well, shit.”
I arch a brow. “That was faster than expected.”
She exhales through her nose, dragging a hand through her hair. “I mean, I could scream. Call the cops. Run upstairs and grab a weapon or something.”
I nod. “You could.”
She crosses her arms. “Would it help?”
“Not in the slightest.”
She groans, dragging a hand down her face. "Okay, I hate this, but, who the fuck are you?"
I step forward, careful, slow. "May I come in?"
Layla stares at me. Then, at the space where the plant used to be. Then back at me.
“Yeah, fine, whatever.”
She steps aside. And just like that, her world is over.
Layla’s house is… ordinary. It’s the kind of place that was built to be lived in but never truly felt. The walls are a muted shade of beige, the floors polished wood, everything arranged with a kind of careful sterility that suggests nothing has ever really touched it. No signs of chaos. No signs of something wild clawing through the seams.
Nothing like Luna. Luna is messy, untamed, full of edges that refuse to be softened. But Layla?
Her world is neat. Controlled. A world that’s about to be destroyed. She closes the door behind me, arms crossed over her chest, watching me like she still hasn’t decided if letting me in was the worst mistake of her life.
“My parents aren’t home,” she says after a moment, like it’s an afterthought. But I hear the undercurrent of meaning beneath it. This isn’t normal. This isn’t safe. What the fuck is happening?
I nod. “Convenient.”
She exhales sharply, raking a hand through her hair. “Do you want something? Water? Tea? Whiskey?”
I arch a brow. “Do you have whiskey?”
She gives me a look. “No, but I thought it would make me sound cool.”
“…There’s orange juice.”
I suppress the urge to smile. “Orange juice, then.”
She disappears into the kitchen, and I take the opportunity to study my surroundings.
It’s all wrong. There are family photos on the walls, stiff and posed. Smiling parents, two daughters standing in front of them, identical except for a single year between them. Layla and Luna, side by side, before the world had the chance to pull them apart.
Before I came into Luna’s life. Before she became mine. My fingers twitch at my sides. Luna should be here too. Not in the Hollow, not suffering through the weight of something she was never meant to carry alone.
Layla returns, shoving a glass of orange juice into my hand before flopping onto the couch across from me. She doesn’t look comfortable.