Page 49

I swear under my breath, grab Silas by the elbow, and mutter, “Run.”

And we do. Her laughter follows us down the path like a siren’s wail, too sweet, too sharp, too unhinged.

We don’t stop.

She’s running. Actually running. Like some deranged, lovesick predator on the scent of her prey.

Silas bolts past me, muttering something about not wanting to die like this—hunted by an ex with questionable hygiene and worse taste in men. I’m right behind him, because self-preservation is a perfectly valid reason to abandon dignity.Esmara’s laughter, high and wild, echoes behind us like a banshee’s cry.

We crash through the clearing at the edge of the house, and I don’t even hesitate—I duck behind Riven like the coward I absolutely am. He’s standing there, scowling at us like we’ve interrupted something important, which, knowing him, was probably brooding or carving death threats into bark.

“What the hell?” Riven growls when Silas ducks in behind me, both of us panting.

“She followed us,” I gasp, flattening myself behind him like he’s a shield I paid good money for.

Silas points wildly back at the trees. “She’s feral.”

And then she appears. Like a nightmare. Out of the woods, hair wild, skirt askew, smile manic as she spots Riven and lets out an almost gleeful squeal. “Riven! You’re here too!”

Riven mutters something vicious under his breath and takes one decisive step backward like the ground’s about to swallow him whole.

Ambrose, who’s leaning against the doorframe with a book like he’s above all of us, glances up—his eyes widen a fraction when he sees her. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Even Orin, who is supposed to be composed and terrifying, actually steps behind the house like he’s considering climbing through a window.

Esmara’s gaze snags on me again, sharp as a blade, lips curling in something predatory. “I knew you couldn’t resist me.”

I throw my hands up. “You’re literally chasing me through the woods.”

She doesn’t blink. “It’s fate.”

Silas leans over and whispers loudly, “This is what happens when you don’t use fake names.”

I glare at him. “You’re the one who called her Sugar Lips.”

He grins, unrepentant. “She liked it.”

Before either of us can bolt again, she starts toward Riven. “You’re looking well.”

Riven stares at her like she’s a bomb no one taught him how to disarm.

“Don’t look at her,” I mutter to him. “She feeds off attention.”

And because the universe has a sick sense of humor, she turns toward the house next, eyes gleaming as she catches Ambrose slipping behind the corner like he’s too wise for this shit but still somehow caught in it.

“Oh! You’re all here. It’s like a reunion.”

I look at Silas, deadpan. “We should’ve built that damn tree fort higher.”

He exhales, bending over with his hands on his knees. “We’re gonna die.”

And still—she’s smiling, walking closer, like none of us have been actively fleeing her across half the Hollow.

Esmara’s gaze flicks around like she’s cataloging all of us, and when it lands on Orin—poor, shadow-skulking Orin trying to quite literally blend into the side of the house—her entire face lights up like she’s found a lost relic.

“Oh! Orin,” she coos, like he’s an old lover and not a man who looks one well-placed comment away from vanishing into mist.

He freezes, the muscles in his jaw ticking before he straightens his spine with all the stiff dignity of a man about to face a public execution. His expression doesn’t flicker, but the barest lift of his brow is a warning. He doesn’t want to play.