Page 9

He’s quiet for a moment. It’s an oddly comforting kind of silence, the kind that makes me feel acknowledged without a lot of unnecessary words. Like he’s really listening, and he gets it.

A few minutes later he says, “So your mom, your dad—they know. But they don’t help you?”

“My mom lives overseas now. And my dad—” I hesitate, sucking my lip again. “What do you know about him?”

“I know he’s a respected member of your cult,” Heathcliff mutters. “That he and his pals hunt down people with supernatural abilities and murder them.”

“What?” I rasp. “That’s not true. Their job is to keep old magic from manifesting or reviving. But they don’t kill people. And the church isn’t a cult.”

“Whatever you say, Earnshaw.” He places emphasis on my family name.

“Your family is the dangerous one, Lockwood.”

“Yeah, we’re dangerous, too. More so than you realize, I bet. You think you understand everything about this town, about the gods, about supernatural shit, but you don’t know half of it.”

“So tell me.”

“Not tonight.”

My throat is too sore to argue with him, so I fall silent. And then I fall asleep.

When I come back to consciousness, Heathcliff’s boots are crunching across the gravel of the church parking lot, heading for his truck.

A single outdoor light illuminates the front door of the church.

Moths flutter around that light—a kind of moth I’ve never seen before, with big splashes of deep scarlet on their wings.

The church looks unfamiliar, dramatic, and dreadful, like someone holding a flashlight under their chin and pulling a wicked face.

Its concrete foundation, stained bloody by red Carolina clay, has a wide crack near the east corner.

Heathcliff sets me down, props me against the truck like a doll, and opens the door before picking me up again and putting me on the passenger seat.

As he leans in to fix my seat belt, I inhale his scent—the sweat of weariness, and the spicy remnants of the cologne he wore to church.

His shaggy hair conceals the side of his face, all except his straight nose, full mouth, determined chin.

He’s so close, so ruggedly human, so warm and real and…

Fuck it. I grab his jaw, twist his face toward mine, and kiss him.

My lips are flaky and cracked, and there’s a sourness in my mouth, a metallic hint of blood.

He doesn’t seem to care. He shoves his hand into my hair, grasps the back of my skull, and kisses me brutally, until I can hardly find room to breathe.

The aching crush of our mouths is messy, and it hurts, and yet the salty, smooth heat of his lips and the wet, warm slide of his tongue in my mouth is the best thing I’ve ever experienced.

It’s like he’s erasing the clinging film of death from my skin, bringing me back to life.

I could swear, I feel the pain in my ankle easing, my irritated skin calming, my fingernail healing.

The seat belt clicks, and he breaks the kiss, backing away and closing the door of the truck. I’m left breathless and chilled, weak and ravenous for more.

I kissed him.

Why did I do that? I touch my sore mouth.

When he swings into the driver’s seat, I manage words. “Thank you for everything you did tonight.”

“Any decent person would have done the same.”

No. They wouldn’t . “We can’t hang out again.”

He laughs a little, hands tightening on the steering wheel. “You think you can fuck me, kiss me, thank me, and then kick me to the curb? It’s not gonna be that easy, Princess. I’m in your life now, like it or not, and you’re in mine.” He starts the engine. “Let’s get you home.”

Neither of us speak again until we reach my house.

I’m not sure how he knows where I live. True, most people in Wicklow know the Earnshaw place…

but the Lockwoods don’t live within the town limits.

Dad says most of them live over in Coosaw, a neighboring town, and they don’t come to Wicklow or to my family’s house on Wuthering Lane.

Wuthering Lane is a quiet road, with houses spaced far apart, screened from each other by cedars and magnolias.

My house is a huge, old, rambling colonial, much larger than anything we could afford if we bought it new nowadays.

It’s a family place, owned by generations of Earnshaws—a pillared, gabled two-story with dirty white siding, a wraparound porch, and a balcony on the second floor.

A semicircle drive curves through the wide lawn, sweeps past the porch, and swerves back to the road.

In the half-circle of turf outlined by the driveway rears a massive live oak, its thick branches arching upward before plunging back down to run low along the ground.

Spanish moss drapes every bough, turning the tree into a hulking, gray-bearded monster as the beams of Heathcliff’s truck slice across it.

He pulls up, leaves the engine running, and comes around to help me up the walk to the porch. Dad left the two porch lights on, but all the windows in the house are dark. Guess I should be grateful he’s not awake to witness Heathcliff Lockwood bringing me home.

I shake free of Heathcliff’s hand as I mount the last step to the porch. The imprint of his fingers stays on my skin, searing, tingling.

He surveys the dark house with narrowed eyes. “You need me to come in, help you get settled?”

“My dad would shoot you if he caught you inside.”

His mouth twists in a half smile, but the expression vanishes almost instantly as his gaze drops to my feet. “I’ll need my socks back.”

“Oh. Sure.” I pull them off, noting that my sprained ankle looks much less swollen than I thought it would. Feels pretty good, too. I’m healing faster than usual this time.

I ball up the socks and toss them to Heathcliff. He catches them, stuffs them in his pocket. “I carried your shoes along for a while, but then I left ’em behind. You don’t need those ankle-breakers anyway.”

Something about his statement ticks me off—a possessiveness, an intent to dictate my choices, a hint of I know what’s best for you . I don’t like the vibe, so I snap, “I’ll wear whatever shoes I want, thanks.”

His dark eyes spark as he catches the belligerence in my tone. “Sure. Fine. Go ahead and break your ankle next time. See if I care.”

“No one asked you to care.”

“So when you thanked me earlier, that was just performative, huh?”

“Performative?” I raise my eyebrows. “The scruffy delivery guy sure knows some big words.”

His jaw tightens. “You be careful, Earnshaw. There are people who would pay a fuck-ton of money to know about this little secret of yours.”

I can’t read his expression. “Are you… Is that a threat?”

“It’s reality.”

Okay, here we go. I should have known he didn’t do this out of the goodness of his heart. He owns my secret now, which means he owns me .

“I don’t have much money, so blackmailing me is pointless.” My legs wobble, and I grip the porch post to hold myself steady.

“If I wanted money, I’d sell you to the right people and get myself a payday.”

“So you want sex, then? And you’ll keep my secret in exchange?”

He’s glowering, looking absolutely thunderous. “You think I’m that kind of man?”

“I don’t know what kind of man you are. I’m grateful that you got me home, but I’m also creeped out that you stalked me, first at church and then in the woods.

Now you’re talking about how dangerous your family is and how you know where to sell me for a ‘fuck-ton’ of money…

and I’m supposed to think what? That you’re the good guy? ”

“Fuck no. I’ve never been the good guy, and I don’t plan to start now.”

“If you’re not blackmailing me, why the cryptic warning? You can’t just say something like that and not explain.”

He fixes me with a defiant glare, then spins on his heel and stalks back to his truck.

I cling to the porch pillar, frowning, trying to figure out why on earth someone would pay for me, why anyone would be interested in what I can do beyond medical research or something. Maybe that’s what he means. He’d sell me to the government.

It’s hard for me to believe that the guy who spent thirteen hours with me in the woods, gave me his socks, and carried me home would sell my secret for personal gain.

But most people are shit, so I guess you never know.