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Surprise momentarily relieves the sensation of claws scrabbling under my skin. Weirdly enough, I kind of want to go. I haven’t been to the beach in ages. And if it’s a private beach, there won’t be too many people around, so it’s less likely I’ll be triggered.

“Next weekend?” My episode should be over by then. “Sure, I’m in. I’ve got this new bikini I’ve been dying to wear.”

“Okay, or…” His eyes travel down to my bare shoulders, and his smile wavers. “Maybe, um…maybe wear a one-piece swimsuit…you know, if you have one.”

“Oh, right.” I press my fingers to my lips, letting my eyes widen with mock horror. “We wouldn’t want my exposed navel to cause a riot.”

He has the grace to look uncomfortable. “The dress code was Dad’s idea.”

“What do you want me to wear?” I slow-blink at him, a half smile curving my mouth.

Edgar flushes pink from his throat to the roots of his blond hair. “I…I, um… Wear whatever you want.”

“How twenty-first century of you. I think I will.”

He clears his throat. “Cool, I’ll text you the details. Same number?”

“Yup.” Same phone number, same email, same house, same job I’ve had for years. I’m stuck, a fish caught in a net, and I have no idea how to swim free.

Liberty takes money, which is in short supply in Wicklow.

Edgar’s younger sister, Isabella, bustles up behind him, looking angelically pious in a long, ruffled dress and heels, not a hair out of place on her golden head. She barely glances at me before tugging his sleeve. “Eddie, Dad needs you.”

“Duty calls.” Edgar gives me an apologetic wave and hurries away with Isabella.

I sink onto the very end of the back pew, where I can easily access the door if I need to. I’ve had to leave a service twice before. I claimed nausea the first time, but that gave rise to speculation about a secret pregnancy, so I used a migraine as my excuse the second time.

I guess I’m lucky all this didn’t start until I was around sixteen.

After the first couple episodes, my parents figured out what I was and switched me to homeschooling.

Mom stuck it out until I finished twelfth grade, and then she left.

She’s living in England now, with some lady professor.

They travel a lot, and there never seems to be a good time for me to go visit them.

Not to mention the fact that being in a crowded airport would likely trigger multiple episodes—and I don’t want to think about what would happen if I had one of my fits while on a plane.

I’m happy for Mom. We FaceTime once a month, and I’m genuinely glad she got away and is living her best life. But I hate her for it too, the way I hate all people with options .

Aunt Nellie passes by, gives me a cheerful smile and a nod, but doesn’t stop to say hi.

As a favored member of the congregation, she’s headed up front to chat with her friends.

She’ll probably sit with Dad. They’ll talk about all the surface things of life, never once dipping into the matter of my oddness or his drunken rages.

I’m not even sure how much she knows about his drinking. He’s good at keeping secrets.

Mrs. Coffey seats herself at the organ and begins playing one of the hymns I’ve heard all my life. No modern service here—it’s all the very oldest of old-school.

The words of the hymn are engraved into my brain, and they play in a doleful loop while I clutch the edge of the pew, my nails digging into the wood grain.

There is a fountain filled with blood

Drawn from Immanuel’s veins;

And sinners plunged beneath that flood

Lose all their guilty stains.

Fucking creepy. And gross. My brain won’t stop picturing a torrent of blood pouring out from between elevator doors like in The Shining , and I want to scream .

The urge to shriek aloud is tightening my lungs, throbbing in my chest. The creature inside me is crawling up my throat, claws slitting tissue as she climbs my gullet, heaves herself onto my tongue, pries open my jaws—

“That seat taken?”

The gruff male voice startles me out of my trance. The blood in my mind recedes, and the monster in my throat sinks back down as I swallow.

I look up at the man who spoke.

Heathcliff Lockwood looms above me, looking like sin incarnate in a clean white shirt and dark jeans.

The shirt’s top three buttons are open, revealing the leaves and vines tattooed across his chest. There’s part of a wing, too—a crow, maybe?

The crisp shirtsleeves are rolled up to his elbows, baring his brown, tattooed forearms. He’s got a few silver rings on his fingers—I didn’t notice them yesterday.

He’s pointing to the pew beyond me.

“You can’t be here,” I hiss.

His dark eyebrows lift. “Isn’t everyone welcome at church?”

“That’s what they say, but they never mean it.”

He shrugs and wedges himself into the narrow gap between my knees and the back of the next pew. He’s facing me, so the crotch of his jeans is pretty much level with my face. And he pauses , right there, looks down at me, and smirks.

The image flashes into my mind—me drawing down his zipper, taking his cock out, popping the head into my mouth, sliding my lips down the shaft.

Heathcliff sinking his thick fingers into my hair, making me take him deeper.

What would the congregation do? What would they say?

Would my dad shoot me afterward for bringing shame to the Earnshaw family?

“For god’s sake, move,” I whisper. “You can’t sit with me.

You’re a Lockwood. My father would kill me if he knew—if—” I glance around, distressed to see that nearly everyone in the sanctuary is looking our way.

Conversations have stopped, and dozens of pairs of eyes are fixed on us. Blood rushes to my cheeks.

We don’t get visitors here. I’m not sure what he said at the door to make them let him in, but he’s drawing way too much attention.

Heathcliff squeezes past me and sits about three feet away, just enough distance to make it clear we’re not together.

He tries to maneuver his long legs into a comfortable position, then gives up and angles himself sideways, stretching them out.

He’s wearing the same work boots from yesterday.

Crumbly bits of dried mud mark the carpet where he stepped.

The church’s scanty choir files into the two rows of chairs on the platform, behind the pulpit, in front of the baptistry. The scattered groups of people throughout the sanctuary move to take their seats as well, many of them casting curious or suspicious glances at Heathcliff.

Luckily there’s no one else in the back row on either side of the aisle, and no one in the pew in front of us. Moving my lips as little as possible, I mutter, “Why are you here?”

“Thought it was about time I check out this god and see what he’s all about. Maybe confess my sins.” He jerks his head toward one of the confessional booths.

“I suspect your confession would take a very long time.”

He chuckles. “And yours wouldn’t?”

“Not at all.” I shouldn’t be encouraging him, but I can’t help adding, “I just make something up and then confess to lying at the end.”

“Simple. Effective.” He nods. “I like it.”

“Stop talking to me.”

“You started it.” He crosses his arms and slouches lower as Deacon Mohan opens with announcements. When the worship pastor directs the congregation to stand for the first song, I grab a hymnbook and open it, just to have something to occupy my shaking hands.

As the congregation begins to sing, Heathcliff takes a sideways step toward me. He leans in, as if he’s trying to read the words of the hymn, and without thinking, I hold the book closer to him, angling it so he can see.

He reaches for the book casually, sharing the task of holding it open. His big hand spreads across the cover, and the tips of his callused fingers brush against mine.

The touch is like a lighter to gasoline. Heat zaps from my fingertips, flows up my arm, quivers in my chest like a warm, fluttering bird.

Heathcliff is singing, low and deep, gruff and slightly off-key, lyrics about being taken, molded, filled, used…

and sure, it’s supposed to be about god’s spirit or whatever, but damn it if those words don’t take on an entirely different meaning with this beautiful man at my side.

I can feel my cheeks flaming as I mouth the words I can’t manage to sing.

When the song ends, I yank the hymnbook back into my possession. Heathcliff glances down at me, and the corner of his mouth curves up.

The prayer comes next. It’s a long one, an endless invocation by one of the older men in the congregation.

I’m supposed to stand still, keeping my head bowed and my eyes closed, and I don’t know how I’m going to manage that with the churning unrest in my body.

I’m desperate for distraction, so halfway through the prayer, I turn my head and sneak a peek at Heathcliff.

He’s looking at me. Openly watching me while the rest of the congregation stands with lowered heads.

There’s a roguish heat in his eyes, a tempting menace in the way he smiles at me.

Like a wolf who would devour me whole if it weren’t for the rest of the flock standing around us and the watchdogs waiting in the front pew.

He slides his hand to his belt and tugs at the waist of his pants a bit, just enough to tighten the fabric and show me the outline of the thick erection beneath them.

I suck in a tiny breath, face forward, and shut my eyes again.

Heathcliff is a walking blasphemy, and I love that.

But I can’t really enjoy it because my mind feels like it’s splitting open.

I’m losing the battle with my secret self.

She’s compelled to crawl out of my soul, to be heard, to herald the oncoming death of someone in Wicklow.

Not even a quickie in the church bathroom would help me now.

I should have told Dad about how I felt. He might have let me stay home from church. Unlikely, though, because I’ve used that excuse multiple times when it wasn’t true, and now I’m the girl who screamed wolf.

Just as I’m making up my mind to slip out during the prayer, it ends, and we’re all ordered to sit down. The ushers come forward with silver collection plates, passing them along the rows so people can contribute to the weekly offering.

As Deacon Kitt reads a Scripture passage, the urge to wail out loud swells in me with such violence, I nearly explode. Pressure pounds in my head, a driving pain. I dare not open my mouth to breathe, or a shriek will burst out.

I have to leave. Now.

The ushers retreat, and the congregation rises for another song. Under cover of the movement, I stagger from the pew, lurch to the doors, and haul one open just wide enough for me to slip out. Stars wink in front of my eyes as I hold my breath, one hand clamped tightly over my mouth.

I waited too long.

Fuck my life.

I’m running down the steps, across the parking lot. My temples are tightening, throbbing. Tiny, sharp pains in my eyes tell me the blood vessels are bursting.

Just a little farther.

I crash through the trees, shedding my white sweater on the brambles, tilting and stumbling on the rough ground in my strappy sandals. Tears leak from my eyes in copious streams.

Can’t hold it back any longer. Have to let it out, let it out, let me out —

I open my mouth, and the monster screams.