Page 1

The stench hits me first—the sharp, wet reek of rot and damp earth curling in the narrow throat of the entryway like a living thing. It clings to the cracked plaster walls, oozes from the muddy footprints stamped across the floorboards I scrubbed clean yesterday. The scent is foul, festering, and so deeply embedded in the grain of the wood it feels like this house will never be clean again.

I stand in the doorway, fists curled tight at my sides, staring at the chaos like it might rearrange itself if I look hard enough. Mud spatters the walls, dark and glistening, trailing all the way to the crooked staircase. It’s smeared across the rug, crusted onto the boots tossed haphazardly by the door, streaked over the doorframe itself like a storm came through and had the courtesy to wipe its feet on our bones.

My eye twitches.

“Silas,” I call, too calm, too even.

No answer.

I raise my voice, sharp enough to cut through the paper-thin walls. “Silas.”

The crash upstairs is immediate—something knocking over, a thud that shakes the ceiling, followed by the unmistakable sound of Silas tripping over his own existence.

A beat later, he appears at the top of the staircase like he’s stepping onto a stage he owns. His hair is a wreck, damp and curling wildly around his forehead, but it’s the green tips that stop me cold. Bright, electric green bleeding into the darkness like poison ivy winding through nightshade.

He grins, lopsided and unrepentant. "Hey, darling."

I arch a brow, shifting my weight onto one hip, crossing my arms. "You’re going to tell me why there’s mud all over the godsdamn house. And why your hair looks like you lost a fight with a forest sprite."

He bounds down the stairs two at a time, barefoot, wearing the most ridiculous pair of pants I’ve ever seen—neon, striped, too tight around the thighs, loose at the calves, like someone dared him to look unhinged and he took it personally.

“Good news and bad news," he announces, skidding to a halt in front of me, planting his hands on his hips like he’s about to deliver a royal decree. "Bad news is, the mud’s mine. Good news is, Ambrose dyed my hair.”

I blink. Slowly. "Why?"

Silas shrugs, grinning wider. "Apparently, I needed to match my personality."

"You tracked this shit everywhere."

He points at me, eyes sparkling, like he’s just solved a mystery. "Actually, no. You’re gonna wanna blame Ambrose."

My jaw ticks. "Ambrose doesn’t frog-hunt in the woods at two in the morning."

Silas’s grin turns sly, mischievous. "No, but he did enchant my shampoo."

I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Why do I even ask?"

He rocks back on his heels, balancing too close to tipping over, clearly enjoying himself. "Because you love me."

"And you’ve turned my entryway into a swamp."

He glances around, as if only now noticing the destruction. "Well. It’s got character."

"You’re going to clean it."

Silas leans in, dropping his voice, too close, too much like he’s about to sell me the worst idea I’ve ever heard. "Or… you can change your clothes and come with me."

I narrow my eyes. "Come with you where?"

“To get payback, obviously." He twirls on his heel like he’s dancing, spins toward the stairs, then looks over his shoulder. "Ambrose thinks he’s clever, but he’s not. I’ve got a plan. I need backup."

I glance past him at the wreckage—the mud-streaked walls, the ruined rug, the puddle still seeping into the cracks of the wood like rot—and I shouldn’t. I should tell him to clean it, to grow up, to stop dragging chaos into every corner of this house we’ve managed to carve out of nothing.

But the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth—the light in his eyes—I know that smile. It’s the only thing keeping him stitched together some days.

I sigh, rubbing the heel of my hand over my brow. "You’re an idiot."

"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 many bodies, 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.

A smirk crawls across his lips, lazy and lethal. "Well," he drawls, voice rough, "aren’t you a vision."

I glance down at myself—pink pants, threadbare shirt, mud-smudged toes—and arch a brow. "Don’t start."

He grins wider, straightening, something sharp behind the slouch. "Oh, I wouldn’t dare. But if you wanna make questionable fashion choices at one in the morning, sweetheart, who am I to stop you?"

Silas snorts. "She’s helping me."

Elias’s eyes flick between us, dark and knowing. "Of course she is."

His gaze lingers a beat too long when it lands back on me, voice dropping like he’s trying to sound careless but failing miserably. "You really gonna crawl around in the swamp with him, sweetheart? Thought you were the sensible one."

"She’s got layers," Silas pipes up, throwing an arm around my shoulders. "Corruptible layers."

Elias’s smirk falters, like something inside him stutters. He scratches the back of his neck, glancing away too quickly, and mutters under his breath, "I’m not jealous."

I roll my eyes, slipping out from under Silas’s arm. "No one said you were."

He snorts, turning away like he can shake it off. "I’m gonna go make popcorn. For when Ambrose murders you."

"Good," Silas calls after him. "You can sprinkle our ashes on it when we’re done."

I glance back at Elias, catching the way his gaze flicks back one last time, lingering at the curve of my mouth like he’s thinking too much. Always too much. And then Silas is tugging me out the door, barefoot and wild, into the damp, mud-slick night.

The Hollow stretches out beyond the village, sharp with the scent of wet stone and something older—something magic. The woods loom dark and watching, their branches curling like skeletal hands against the starless sky. The frogs are already singing, their voices rising in a discordant chorus that echoes across the field.

It’s ridiculous.

It’s stupid.

It’s the most alive I’ve felt in days.

Silas turns to me, net in hand, eyes bright as the swamp reflects in them like flame. "You ready, darling?"

I meet his grin, my own twisting sharp and wild.

"Let’s go ruin him."

The Hollow doesn’t sleep. Not really. It lulls, maybe—simmers. Waits. But even out here, beneath the moss-choked trees and silver-threaded sky, it breathes.

Silas walks ahead of me like he’s immune to the way this world watches, barefoot in the slick grass, net swinging from one hand like a banner of rebellion. The path narrows into marsh, the kind that swallows your ankles if you don’t move fast enough. Which, of course, Silas doesn’t. He wades straight into the muck with a delighted noise that’s too close to a giggle for comfort.

"Silas," I warn, already regretting this. "If something bites you, I’m not carrying you home."

He glances over his shoulder, a frog clutched delicately in one hand like a prize, his smile too wide. "You’d carry me. You’d cry over my limp, bitten corpse."

"You’d deserve it."

"Still." He tosses the frog gently into a mesh sack hanging from his belt. "You’d weep. Probably write poetry about me."

"I’d write your eulogy on the back of a dirty napkin and staple it to a tree."

He laughs—bright, reckless—and it ricochets off the trees like something holy. He squats low, mud squelching around his knees as he peers into the brackish water. "Come to Papa, you little swamp demons. I just wanna introduce you to a four-poster bed and a morally bankrupt raven-haired bastard."

I crouch beside him, dragging the net through the water. The frogs scatter, slick and fast, but one jumps straight into my palm like it’s choosing me. I hold it up between my fingers, and Silas whistles.

"That one’s majestic. Very regal. Has Ambrose energy."

I glance at the frog. It does look mildly disdainful. Like it’s already judging my life choices.

"I’ll name him Disappointment."

Silas cackles. "Perfect. He can sit on Ambrose’s pillow."

The water’s cold, biting through the ridiculous pink pants clinging to my thighs. Mud seeps through the seams, and I’m vaguely aware of something squirming near my calf, but I don’t flinch. I let the wild of this place seep into my skin, because if I let myself think too hard—about Branwen, about the pillar, about what might come next—I’ll forget how to laugh. And gods know we need laughter, even if it comes dressed in frog slime and idiocy.

Silas dives forward suddenly, both hands plunging into the water, body curved like a dancer mid-lunge. He comes up victorious, a frog the size of his palm clutched in both hands.

"This one," he says breathlessly, reverent, "this one’s the boss. He’s the king. He’s the chaos."

He holds it out to me like he’s offering me a crown. The frog blinks slowly. Slimy. Massive. Slightly vibrating.

"No," I say.

"Yes," he insists, stepping closer. "Take him. Name him. Feel his power."

"Silas, I swear to all things sacred—"

"I’ll call him Trauma," he interrupts, pressing the frog into my hands with gentle, obnoxious care. "Because that’s what Ambrose is gonna need therapy for after this."

I hold the slimy bastard at arm’s length, my expression as deadpan as I can manage. "You’re disgusting."

He winks, already turning back to the water. "We’ve got nine. I want at least twenty."

"Why?"

"Because Ambrose has at least twenty reasons to suffer."

I shake my head, tucking Trauma into the sack before the little monster can leap into my cleavage. "You’re a menace."

"And you’re wearing hot pink pants in a haunted swamp," he calls. "We’re both past redemption."

By the time we slink back toward the house, our clothes are ruined. Mud slicks down my legs, the sack of frogs croaks loudly with each step, and Silas has a streak of slime in his hair that looks deliberate. Like a trophy.

We creep through the back, slipping in through the warped kitchen door that never quite shuts right. The house is quiet except for the low groan of old beams and the occasional thud of someone shifting upstairs. Silas presses a finger to his lips, eyes wild, grinning like a man on the edge of a felony.

I follow him.

We tiptoe up the stairs—if you can call it tiptoeing when his feet squelch with every step and I’m leaking mud. The hallway feels tighter than it should, like the walls know what we’re planning and want to join in. Moonlight spills through the crooked window at the end, casting everything in pale silver.

Ambrose’s door is shut.

Silas turns to me, eyes gleaming. "You ready?"

"No."

He eases the door open with agonizing care. It creaks—because of course it does—but nothing stirs inside. Ambrose sleeps like a vampire: motionless, precise, probably waiting to punish us for the audacity of joy.

The room is barely lit, just enough to catch the faint gleam of his raven hair where it spills over the pillow. His coat hangs on the chair. His boots are perfectly aligned. The entire space smells like cold steel and something darker—like old magic and colder regrets.

Silas leans toward me, whispers, "He’s gonna kill us."

I nod. "Slowly."

We step inside.

Frog by frog, we place them. On the dresser. The chair. The edge of the bed. One nestled into the crook of Ambrose’s knee like it’s found god.

Trauma goes last—centered on the pillow, facing him like a sentinel.

Silas mouths a silent prayer. "May his dreams be haunted and his sheets forever damp."

I bite my lip, stifling a laugh.

But then Ambrose stirs—just the faintest shift, a muscle ticking in his jaw, his breath catching once.

We freeze.

I don’t breathe.

Silas reaches out slowly, wraps his hand around my wrist, grounding me—and maybe himself. His fingers are cold. Damp. Slimy. I don’t care.

Ambrose exhales, deep and slow, and goes still again.

We bolt.

Down the hallway, back through the kitchen, into the garden like kids running from a crime scene, laughing breathless into the dark.

Silas flings himself into the grass, arms wide, chest heaving. I collapse beside him, my body aching and wet and humming with adrenaline.

"Best night ever," he says between gasps.

I turn my head, meet his eyes, and for a beat, the madness slips. The grin fades. What’s left is raw and stupidly soft.