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“Oh my god. You’re seriously pitching yourself as a real-life wolf-man?” I say as I realize the only way he could know those things about me and Hank is if he’d broken into Gravenshade and planted hidden cameras in the basement. Hopefully not in my bedroom.

He has to be a stalker. An insane one, too.

The room sways around me as I pat my pockets for my phone, noticing it on the bench near the door. Too far away. “You’re crazy. I should call the police. ”

The edges of the room darken, and a warm, sickly sensation washes over me. Then I’m swallowed by a wave of black.

When I open my eyes, the guy is holding me upright, his bare chest too close, his expression worried.

As he loosens his grip on my biceps, I laugh for no good reason, feeling like I’ve drunk a whole jug of Vodka Lemonade. “You have freckles,” I say, my hand reaching toward the dusting of gold speckled across his nose.

His brow creases. “My mom,” he says, jerking his head away from my touch as if he’s the one who has something to be afraid of. Maybe my girl germs.

I step out of his arms. “What about your mom?”

“The freckles… I got them from my mother, Lara .”

He says his mom’s name like it should be significant to me, but I have no clue why I should have heard of his mother of all people. But I admit that just the mention of her eases my fear a little. Guys who are about to kill you don’t normally talk about their moms. Or… do they?

He strolls calmly around the table and sits down again.

“I promise I won’t harm you. I need your help,” he says, then waves his hand over his body, indicating his lack of clothes.

“As you can see, I don’t have anything appropriate to wear for this realm.

Don’t live around here. I don’t know anyone but you and the other girl who comes down into the basement occasionally. ”

I cross my arms and stay silent, contemplating making a wild run for my phone on the other side of the kitchen.

“My name’s Wynter Fionbharr, but most of the Folk just call me Wyn.” Then he unleashes a nuclear smile, flashing a knockout set of dimples that sets my pulse racing .

The Folk? He couldn’t mean those Tuatha Dé Danann creeps, could he?

His face is gorgeous, all hard planes and striking angles, strong jaw, and yet those freckles and dimples somehow soften the lethal package, a bit like putting a ribbon on a bear trap.

And damn, do they suit him. A little sweetness sprinkled on a predator who might be about to rip my throat out. It’s disconcerting to say the least.

Marie, the young kitchen servant—who looks like she was around sixteen when she died—appears in the kitchen, hovering above this Wyn person’s right shoulder like a translucent soothsayer, smoothing the blood-covered apron over her black dress. “ Believe ,” she hisses through thin lips.

I point at Wyn and mouth, “ Him ?”

She nods, adjusting her white cap. “ Yessss. Help him .”

Well, in all the years I’ve lived in this house, which is basically my whole life, Marie has never led me astray.

She warned me that my junior-year crush only visited me to photograph Gravenshade’s original black-and-yellow kitchen tiles for his interior design project, not because he was “into me” as he had sworn profusely.

Our ghostly servant correctly informed me that Dad cheated on Mom—not once but three times, with five different women (don’t ask)—in the space of a year.

That his finance business would fail, and his dodgy dealings would end up ostracizing us from Mom’s side of the family, the wealthy Astellias, for good—leaving us screwed financially.

And that’s not counting all the lost socks, hair ties, and school papers she helped me find over the years.

When Marie speaks, I listen. She’s never failed me yet .

As her black-and-white uniform slowly absorbs into the pantry door and she disappears, I study the stranger sitting at my kitchen table, his expression somber, body patiently still.

Hank has vanished. No exit trail, no shredded screen door. Nothing. And now this guy sits at my table with the exact same eerie-ass eyes as my missing wolf. Either this is a very elaborate prank, or something deeply paranormal just waltzed into my life and made himself a cup of coffee.

But people don’t just shift into wolves and then into men. That’s fairy tale logic, not real-world physics.

And yet…

Heat prickles the back of my neck, and I narrow my eyes. “So what are you, then? Some kind of druid with a furry side hustle? A cosplay guy who takes things way too seriously?”

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even flinch.

I’ve not only lived with ghosts but observed them outside my home—in the streets, gardens, bars, stores of the city—for as long as I can remember.

If I can accept them as part of my reality, then surely I must accept that other types of supernatural creatures exist. Like werewolves and shifters, for example.

Still. There’s a big difference between believing in something abstract and watching it swing its supernatural schlong around your kitchen. I pace once across the room. Stop. Glance at him just sitting there like the world’s hottest wax figure.

“Prove it,” I say before I can stop myself. “Shift back. Go all Twilight on me.”

He only tilts his head. Not quite a no. Definitely not a yes.

I wait… One second. Two. Three.

Aaaand… nothing happens .

No bones cracking, no fur sprouting, no dramatic howling at the ceiling. Just him, calmly watching me like this is all very reasonable. The worst part? He looks like he wants to explain something, but thinks I won’t believe him.

And, yeah, he’s probably right.

So thanks to Marie and my questionable decision-making skills, it seems I won’t be calling the cops on this Wyn guy just yet. But I’d better not make a habit of trusting every random hot guy who invades the sanctity of my home to brew coffee in his birthday suit.

Especially if they think they’re a wolf shifter.