Page 2

"And you love me for it," he fires back, already halfway up the stairs again. "Put on something expendable. We’re gonna ruin him."

His voice drifts down the hall like a promise and a threat.

The mud will wait.

I trail after him because I know better by now—fighting Silas’s chaos is like arguing with the tide. You can’t win. You can only choose how you drown.

The stairs creak under my bare feet, each step steeped in the faint smell of damp wood and whatever magic this house has absorbed like a bruise beneath the plaster. It shouldn’t exist, this crooked little place tucked into a village that’s half myth, half graveyard—but somehow, it’s become ours. A temporary sanctuary stitched together with too much noise and too manybodies, a house too small for eight people and all the darkness we drag in.

Silas’s door swings open like it’s daring me to enter. And there, on the bed, like a challenge and a threat, are the pants.

Hot pink. Neon. Unforgivable.

I pause in the doorway, crossing my arms, arching a brow. "Where the hell do you even get this shit?"

Silas’s grin is pure, undiluted madness. "The Hollow provides, darling."

I glance at him sideways, arching a brow. "The Hollow provides? You sound like a cult leader."

He snatches the pants off the bed and holds them up like they’re a relic. "The Hollow knows what I need. And what I need is to ruin Ambrose’s night."

I lean against the doorframe, dragging my gaze over him, the damp curl of his dark hair streaked green at the tips, his ridiculous pants, the gleam in his eyes that only sharpens when he looks at me. "And what exactly is the plan?"

Silas’s grin widens. He gestures toward a battered notebook on the nightstand, its pages crammed with scribbles and poorly drawn diagrams. "We’re going to collect as many frogs as humanly—and inhumanly—possible and put them in Ambrose’s bed."

I blink at him.

"Frogs," I repeat flatly.

"Yes," he says, nodding solemnly. "Frogs. Lots of them. Like, plague-level amounts."

My lips twitch despite myself. "And why frogs?"

Silas drops the pants onto the bed, stalking toward me until there’s barely a breath of space between us. His voice drops low, conspiratorial, wicked. "Because he hates frogs. And because it’s poetic."

I arch a brow. "Poetic."

He grins, teeth flashing. "Ambrose thinks he’s untouchable. Stoic. Above it all. Nothing human left in him, right? But you drop two dozen slimy, screaming little bastards in his bed at midnight, and suddenly he remembers he’s just a man."

He leans closer, voice dropping to a purr. "And it’s fun watching him fall apart."

The bond between us hums, warm and wild. He’s ridiculous. He’s exhausting. And he’s mine.

"You’re insane," I murmur, but I’m already reaching for the hideous pants, holding them up like they’ve personally offended me. "You’re lucky I love you."

Silas’s grin softens for a heartbeat, something quiet and sharp flickering behind his eyes. "I know."

The moment doesn’t last.

He claps his hands, turning away, already bouncing on the balls of his feet like he’s high on the disaster he’s about to cause. "Now, get dressed. We’ve got frogs to wrangle."

I shake my head but pull the pants on anyway, because when it comes to Silas, I’ve already lost.

By the time I make it back downstairs, he’s at the door, barefoot, a net over one shoulder, pockets stuffed with what looks like dried meat and broken twine.

Elias is slouched against the doorframe, dark hair rumpled, half-asleep, like he’s been dragged here against his will. His gaze flicks lazily over me and promptly catches.

He blinks once. Twice.