I’m going to have to tread carefully over the next week, put this inconvenient attraction back in the box where it belongs.
Otherwise, Tallulah Gentry won’t be the only one in mortal danger.
TWENTY-TWO
TWIGGY
Idreaminfragments.
Shiloh’s wrist, small and bruised, caught in Jason Adams’ hand as he drags her through the trees. Her bare feet slip on wet leaves, leaving smeared crescents behind them.
The Falls roar, louder than they should, drowning out her voice when she tries to scream.
Henry’s eyes in the cabin window. Henry’s voice in my headphones. “Smart little bird,” he croons. “Look what you did.”
The chat screen bleeds into the rocks below the waterfall—lines of text etched into Mia Hart’s skin. Her hair fans around her face, ice-laced, river water catching on her lashes like glitter. When I reach for her, she blinks, and it’s Miguel’s face staringup at me instead, throat cut, hay stuck in the dried blood along the edge of the wound.
Hoofbeats pound somewhere behind me. I turn, but it’s not horses—it’s Bran. His boots slam against stone like hooves. His hands are red. His mouth is red. “It’s too late, Tinkerbell,” he says, but I can’t tell if he means for them or for me.
I look down and realize my fingers are on a keyboard, typing his name over and over—HENRY THURSTON HENRY THURSTON HENRY—until the letters blur and Henry’s face peers up out of the pixels, smiling, smiling, smiling.
“You didn’t stop me,” he says. “You just picked the next scene. The next girl.”
I try to shoutno, but water fills my mouth. Not river water—blood. It tastes like pennies and panic. I choke, clawing at the air—
“Tallulah. Twig. Hey. Tally. Wake up.”
The voice cuts through the dream like a new sound file layered over a corrupt track. Hands on my shoulders, big and hot and real, shaking me once, twice.
“Come on, Tally girl. Open your eyes for me.”
I jerk awake with a gasp, the sound ripping out of my throat like it’s been trapped there for days. For a second, everything is wrong—the dark, the unfamiliar ceiling, the way the air feels thinner without my ancient heater wheezing in the corner.
Then the details snap into place.
Cabin. Tennessee. Bran.
The mattress dips beside me under his weight. One of his hands is still on my shoulder, solid and steady; the other is braced on the far side of my body, caging me without pinning.
“Hey,” he says, low and rough and too gentle for a man with that voice. “You with me?”
My heart is sprinting. Sweat slicks the back of my neck, my T-shirt clinging to my chest. I drag a shaky hand over my face and blink at him.
The bedside lamp is on, casting everything in a soft gold. His hair is tousled, like he raked his fingers through it on his way in. There’s a faint pillow crease on his cheek.
“I—” My voice cracks. I clear my throat. “Sorry. Did I…was I loud?”
His mouth tightens. “You were screaming.”
Oh. Cool. Love that for me.
“Great,” I mutter, squeezing my eyes shut again. “Fantastic. Exactly the impression I was going for. ‘Hi, welcome to my trauma concert.’”
“Tally.” His thumb moves, just a fraction, brushing my collarbone through the cotton. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?” I ask, even though I know.
“Turn it into a joke before you even look at it.”
