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“Parker.”

The voice snaps me out of my thoughts, dragging me back to reality. I blink, shaking off the mental fog.

“Sleeping on the job again, eh, Snow Pea?”

Hudson Carter’s teasing voice wraps around me, dangerously warm, but the nickname slices straight through me, sharp and cold as a razor blade. I flinch slightly, my pulse quickening as memories surge—dark whispers, shadows coiling around me, the rasp of his voice murmuring the same name in the dark.

Hudson doesn’t know. How could he?

He doesn’t understand what the nickname means—what it brings back. Why I work the night shift. Why I don’t like the dark. Why I keep my lights on even when I sleep.

I keep my eyes locked on the cake in front of me, hands trembling slightly as I set down the knife to pipe blue flowers along the whipped buttercream border. If I don’t respond, maybe he’ll let it go.

But Hudson isn’t good with hints and is incapable of reading a room. I’m pretty sure he believes he can charm his way into any situation. Maybe he can.

“We’ve still got five cake orders to finish tonight, and half the sourdough loaves still need designs before going in the oven.”

It’s just the two of us in the bakery right now; Betty’s out back on break, leaving me alone with him. Hudson, Creek Haven’s golden boy, shift supervisor—and my personal source of temptation and frustration.

Lucky me.

“They won’t decorate themselves, you know,” he teases softly, leaning against the counter beside me. His shoulder brushes mine, sending sparks dancing along my skin.

I sigh dramatically, feigning annoyance to hide the way my pulse quickens at his closeness. I secretly crave these small moments, the warmth in his voice, the brief touches that are the closest I ever allow myself to true human interaction.

But getting involved with Hudson isn’t an option. The last thing I need is someone else’s blood on my conscience—or worse, Hudson’s name at the top of my monster’s list.

“Let’s pick up the pace, Snow Pea,” he adds with a grin. “Don’t make me start charging you rent for standing around looking cute.”

My breath stutters.

There it is again.

That name.

“I’ve asked you not to call me that,” I mutter, wiping icing from my hands and risking a glance in his direction.

Mistake.

He grins, mischief sparkling in his blue eyes, sandy blond hair flopping perfectly across his forehead. My traitorous heart stumbles. Why does he have to be so effortlessly charming? It’s a shame I have to keep him at bay. Out of necessity and survival.

“It’s the perfect nickname for a baker. You’re always dusted in flour and sugar. Like snow.” He reaches out and gently sprinkles a pinch of powdered sugar into my hair, his fingers brushing too softly against my temple.

My cheeks warm, and I turn away before he notices. If Hudson knew how close he was to breaking through my defenses, he’d never stop. And I can’t let that happen.

If I tried to explain, he’d probably laugh. Or worse—call me crazy. He’s the normal type—the golden boy type. Definitely not the sort of guy to believe in monsters that live in closets and whisper your name from the shadows.

It’s better to bite my tongue, finish the cakes, and hope he finds someone else to charm.

But of course, he doesn’t. Like I said, the guy is incapable of reading a room.

As if on cue, Hudson plops onto the stool next to me, grabbing an icing bag and a blank cake square. He moves with an infuriating kind of ease, like he’s completely at home no matter where he is.

I clench my jaw. Please don’t mess it up, please don’t mess it up...

I take a deep breath and focus on mine instead—a square vanilla cake with smooth white buttercream, finished with blue and white flowers along the corners. I leave the center blank for a message later. Just like always.

One cake down. Four more to go. Well, three. Maybe. Depends on how badly Hudson screws his up.

You’d think a small town like Creek Haven wouldn’t have this many cake orders in a day. But no—these people are alarmingly cheerful. They throw parties for everything. New baby. New fence. A cat’s birthday.

Six thousand residents. Practically one big nosy family.

They don’t call it the happiest town of Saskatchewan for nothing. Or that’s what the folks in this town say. I don’t really know who comes up with these things or what they base them off of.

The upside? It’s quiet. No major highways, no crime, no chaos. Tucked between forests and rivers like a secret. A place where I can work nights, sleep during the day, and keep to myself with few unseen dangers and things that can accidentally kill you. Win-win.

Bonus? I get to do a fun job that helps settle my nerves. There’s a sort of peacefulness that comes with baking and decorating cakes. One that doesn’t involve interacting with anyone.

Except for Hudson Carter. He seems to go out of his way to land every shift I’m on. I’ve made it clear I don’t like him.

… At least, I’ve tried.

Curious, I glance at the cake he’s working on—and blink.

Not only is it not a disaster, but it’s beautiful. Delicate filigree curls along the corners, and in the center he’s piped a sunflower so precise it looks almost real. And?—

“Is that a hummingbird?” I whisper before I can stop myself.

He smirks, clearly pleased. “Mrs. Samson always chooses the designs with birds or butterflies. She says her grandkids like ‘Grandma’s cute cakes.” His smile turns gentle, surprisingly thoughtful. “Pretty sure she pretends she makes them herself.”

I stare at him, genuinely stunned—and annoyingly charmed. Hudson Carter, secretly baking sentimental cakes for little old ladies? Who knew?

This whole time I thought it was Betty…

He slides the cake over like it’s nothing. “She’ll be in tomorrow to grab this one for the weekend. Her grandkids are driving in from the city.”

I should say something snarky or roll my eyes, but I can’t quite manage it. It’s sweet—unexpectedly sweet.

Dammit.

“Not bad, right?” he says, eyebrows lifted playfully.

I’m almost ready to admit he’s not as insufferable as I thought when he smirks wickedly. “Maybe I’ll decorate the next one with a naked guy. Could be good company for you.”

Aaand there it is. Any nice thoughts evaporate in a cloud of tiny hummingbirds.

False alarm. He’s charming and annoying.

I give him a syrupy sweet smile. “You know, not a bad idea. The last guy I brought home was such a disappointment. A cake guy might be better. At least I know he’d be sweet… and he’d taste good.”

He gapes at me like I just slapped him with a spatula.

Perfect.

For a second, something flickers in his expression that looks suspiciously like he’s flustered.

But Betty walks in, calling out, “Parker, it’s time for your break!”

I don’t hesitate. “Taking my twenty,” I chirp, already peeling off my apron as I leave Hudson sputtering behind me.

The locker room is cramped, the kind of space that feels like it was designed as an afterthought. Six dented lockers line one wall, a scuffed wooden bench sits in front, and a tiny table with four mismatched chairs are shoved into the far corner. A microwave balances precariously on top of a mini fridge humming with age. It’s the only sound in here besides the faint buzz of the flickering fluorescent light above.

There’s a narrow window on the wall that probably lets in beautiful natural light in the daytime. But tonight, the storm outside turns it into something ominous—lightning flashing in fractured streaks, shadows jumping like startled ghosts. I try not to watch them move. I know better than to stare too long into things that stare back.

I head toward the bathroom, already zoning out, when his voice startles me again.

“You know… there are actually fun things to do around here besides decorating cakes.”

His voice is playful, but there’s something quieter beneath it. Something real. Curious.

I turn, ready with a sarcastic reply—but stop short when I bump into his chest.

He’s close. Closer than I expected. Close enough that I can smell the faint trace of vanilla and sugar clinging to his shirt. The bathroom door presses against my back, and there’s nowhere to go.

His arm lifts to rest against the door above my head, careful and non-threatening, like he’s giving me the space to step away if I want to. But I don’t. Not yet. Maybe I don’t want to.

My heart flutters like the hummingbird he piped into the frosting earlier.

His voice drops lower, softer. “We could go out after our shift. Get breakfast. I’ll show you around. Introduce you to people who don’t make a habit of working the graveyard shift.”

He glances at my lips and my breath catches. For one terrifying second, I let myself imagine what it would be like if things were different. If I were different.

His breath ghosts across my skin, and I swear it feels like a physical touch. My body responds before my brain can catch up—a blush crawling from my chest to my cheeks, heat blooming in places I haven’t felt warmth in a long time.

Then his hand settles on my hip, confident and steady.

Not forceful. Just... anchoring . Like he’s pulling me closer, slow and deliberate, waiting to see if I’ll stop him.

But I don’t. I can’t. I really really don’t want to.

Dammit.

He leans back slightly, just enough to meet my eyes. His smile is gentler now, all mischief tucked away. There’s no teasing in it. Only quiet, genuine interest.

“You don’t have to be alone all the time,” he says, voice almost hesitant.

His hand doesn’t move. Doesn’t tighten. Just stays . And somehow, that’s worse—because it feels like it belongs there.

His other hand lifts, slow and careful, to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers are warm, his touch light—but it lands like thunder. He brushes his thumb beneath my chin, tilting my face up to his. My lips part as he leans in.

“Go out with me, Snow Pea?—”

And everything shatters.

The nickname hits like ice, like a clawed hand gripping my spine. I go rigid, warmth bleeding out of me in an instant as I jerk away from him. The shadows in my memory curl tighter, darker, whispering his voice over Hudson’s.

My sweet Snow Pea…

I feel Hudson tense as he realizes something’s wrong, confusion softening the heat in his eyes.

“Snow Pea. Parker?—”

“Don’t call me that.”

My voice comes out cold, clipped, and before he can say anything else, I twist the knob behind me and slip into the bathroom, the door creaking open like it’s protesting the abrupt end between us.

I catch a glimpse of his expression as I close it—surprise, concern, something dangerously close to regret.

Then I’m alone again, the door locked, my back pressed against it as I try to breathe.

Dammit, Parker.

There’s a reason you don’t let people in.

I’d almost forgotten how easily charm can sneak under your skin, how quickly warmth can feel like safety. Hudson is too persistent, too genuine. Too good.

And I… I’m too broken to risk wanting him.

I shove off the door and head for the sink, scrubbing the flour and icing from my hands like I can wash away the blush still clinging to my skin. Then I splash my face with cold water, trying to settle the storm rising in my chest.

It helps a little. Not enough.

I keep my head down, avoiding the mirror like I always do. But tonight, something makes me glance up.

And there I am—haunted.

My reflection looks like it belongs to a ghost. My blue-gray eyes are pale and wide, almost colorless in the flickering light. My skin is so washed out I probably could pass for a ghost, and my silver-white hair only adds to the effect.

Dad used to joke that I was born scared of the world—that my hair turned white with fear before I could even speak. The doctors called it vitiligo. They gave it a name, a file, a shrug. But I’ve never believed that.

Not really.

Because I know the truth.

He feeds on me. On my fear, my life, my nearness to death. Every time he finds me—every time he gets close—I lose a little more. A little more color. A little more strength. A little more me .

There was a time I thought I wouldn’t survive the next visit. Until I came to Creek Haven. Until I started breathing again without the weight of his shadow pressed to my spine.

Here, he’s stayed away.

And for the first time in forever, I almost feel… safe.

Almost.

Which is why I keep people at arm’s length. Why I don’t let anyone slip past the walls I’ve built. Why I won’t let Hudson in, no matter how much I want to.

I dry my hands and force the thoughts away, locking them back in the box they always try to crawl out of. With a sigh, I leave the bathroom, heading to the fridge. I grab my half-wilted salad and sink into the closest chair, trying to ignore the weight of everything that’s been lingering.

Hudson is back out with Betty and I’m relieved. Not because I don’t want him near me—but because I’m not sure I could keep my walls intact much longer.

I scroll through my book with one hand and pick at my food with the other, hoping the words will distract me, even if just for a few minutes.

Then—

Everything goes black.

No warning. No flicker. Just… gone.

The light. The hum. The safety.

Gone.

My breath catches.

Fuck. Shit. No.

I shoot to my feet so fast my chair clatters to the floor. My salad container hits the ground with a wet thump. Panic claws up my throat like a living thing, and I fumble to unlock my phone, but my fingers won’t cooperate. I can’t even remember my passcode.

And then?—

THERE YOU ARE, MY SWEET SNOW PEA.

The words aren’t spoken aloud, but they echo—through my chest, my head, my bones. My phone slips from my hand, forgotten.

I freeze as something brushes my cheek.

Not skin. Not fabric. Wrong. Cold and smooth, like silk pulled from ice water.

It drags along the path Hudson’s fingers traced minutes earlier—from my ear down to my jaw before gripping my chin. My breath stutters, body locked in place.

The shadows don’t just reach for me.

They retrace him.

Each touch Hudson gave me, my monster mimics.

My skin burns where it should be numb. Heat and dread coil together inside me, clashing and twisting until I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

A laugh follows—low and cruel.

“You’ve been hiding in the light,” he hisses, his voice thick with hunger. “But I felt you. Flushed. Wanting.”

The air thickens as he moves closer—though I see nothing, I feel him everywhere.

“You let him touch you,” my monster sneers. “You wanted it. You liked it.”

The shadows coil around my calves, slide up my thighs—slow, deliberate, greedy. They curl around the curve of my waist, right where Hudson’s hand had lingered.

Then they surge between my legs—hot and cold at once, sharp and smooth, furious .

A gasp escapes me. Not just from fear—but from something darker.

Something shameful.

My knees wobble. A pulse of electricity races up my spine, unwanted but impossible to ignore. Terror floods me. But beneath it, that lingering heat warps into something monstrous.

Just as the darkness threatens to crest—just as my body betrays me?—

A beam of light slices through the darkness like a knife.

“Parker? You okay?”

Hudson’s voice cuts through the shadows like air after drowning.

The cold vanishes.

I collapse to my knees, trembling and gasping, chest tightening like I’m being squeezed from the inside out. I can’t get enough air. I can’t think.

Hudson drops beside me, flashlight clattering to the floor. He doesn’t touch me, but he’s close—his voice soft, steady.

“Hey… hey, it’s okay,” he says, crouching low. “Breathe with me, alright? In through your nose… slow, yeah?”

I try. I fail. My chest stutters. My eyes search the corners wildly, looking for shadows, but my vision is darkening at the edges, my mouth opening and closing with no air going in or out.

“Okay,” he says again, gentler now, like he’s talking to a cornered animal. “Can you look at me?”

I can’t. I can’t focus on anything, my vision blurry, the words familiar but making no sense through the fog of panic.

He waits a beat, then asks, “Can you tell me where you are?”

Still nothing. I know he’s speaking to me in words I’m supposed to understand, asking me things I should have answers to, but I can’t get air to fill my lungs, making my head swim with confusion and adrenaline from sheer alarm and dread.

“Parker, just squeeze my hand if you can hear me.”

I want to. I do . But my fingers won’t move, my body locked in place by something colder than fear and heavier than shame.

“Hey, it’s okay. Betty got the generator going,” he murmurs. “I’m here now. You’re not alone. I’ve got you.”

And he does.

That’s the problem.

I finally manage a shaky breath. Then another. It’s not much—but it’s something.

He exhales and inhales loudly, his breath brushing against my cheeks and making strands of my hair flutter in the breeze, and the contact, the unexpected comfort from it helps ground me. He repeats the motion of inhaling then exhaling and I match his pace, my focus returning and the burn in my lungs slowly fading.

“There you go. Just keep breathing.”

The silence stretches between us, filled only by the distant hum of the generator and the flutter of my heartbeat slowing to something almost manageable.

I still can’t bring myself to look at him.

Because once again—I let someone get too close.

“You okay?”

I nod, because it’s the only thing I can manage. But it’s not reassurance. It’s an apology.

Because I know I’m going to pull away. I always do.

Because he deserves someone who doesn’t come with monsters.

And mine is back.

This wasn’t a warning. It was a claim.

I’d let my guard down. Thought he’d finally gotten bored and moved on.

But I was wrong. So, so wrong.

He’s stronger now. More precise. More possessive than before. Why?

And the new ache he left behind—shameful, lingering, still buzzing in places I refuse to acknowledge—is a cruel reminder that I was never safe and that I don’t really know how to stay that way.

My monster is starving and he won’t stop until he gets what he wants…

My death.