Introvert timeout.
The fluorescent light hums overhead. The fan rattles. My pulse, which has been in light-fight-or-flight mode for the last hour, starts to ease.
I turn the cold tap on and splash water on my face. When I look up, the mirror throws back a version of me I’m still getting used to—elf dress, striped tights, freckles standing out stark against winter-pale skin. Blue eyes rimmed with dark circles and sleepless nights.
But my mouth is curved.
Happy. That’s what my reflection looks like. Not in a manic, jittery way. In a weird, quiet way that feels like standing in a sunbeam.
That’s Bran’s fault.
He’s infuriating and bossy and constantly on my last nerve. He’s also…my brain scrolls through the data, searching for the right label.
…a giant cinnamon roll, I decide. Crunchy on the outside, soft in the middle, full of dangerous levels of sugar. The kind of thing you know isn’t good for you in large doses, but you want it anyway.
Shiloh makes cinnamon rolls every Christmas—a tradition she inherited from her mom—and delivers them to friends and neighbors, big pans of sticky, spiraled perfection. I love those almost as much as Karla’s donuts.
Thinking of Christmas makes my chest pinch.
Last Thursday: Friendsgiving at Cotton’s. Savvi fussing over the turkey, Miguel sneaking Saoirse extra rolls, Jack pretending he wasn’t tearing up during the toast. Mom’s hummingbird ornament hovering in my mind because I still haven’t been able to hang it.
Had it really only been a week since then?
Seven days from laughter and comfort and Miguel alive to…this.
To Bran in a Santa suit, to kids who have no idea a monster put my name on his list, to me standing in Floyd’s bathroom trying to talk myself out of wanting things likeforeverandsafeandhim.
Dangerous. All of it is dangerous.
I blow out a breath, flip the lock, and pull the bathroom door open.
I haven’t taken a full step into the hallway before a hard arm bands around my shoulders and neck, yanking me backward.
A second hand clamps over my mouth, smashing my lips against my teeth.
The world narrows to muscle and pressure and the sudden, visceral awareness of being prey.
“Look what Santa delivered,” a familiar voice croons against my ear, breath hot and awful. “A spicy little gift right into my waiting arms…”
Henry.
My brain slams the name into place on a delay, like a buffering video.Henry. Henry. Henry.
I explode.
I kick backward, heel connecting with shin, sending boxes and stock tumbling. I grab at the forearm crushing my throat and sink my teeth into the flesh, hard, tasting copper and something chemical.
It’s like a butterfly fighting a hurricane.
He laughs. Actually laughs. His arm tightens, forearm pressing into my windpipe just shy of cutting off air entirely. He hauls me deeper into the hallway, away from the faint muffled noise of Christmas carols and squeaky shoes.
“Still such a fighter,” he murmurs, amused. “I do so love that about you, smart little bird.”
I thrash harder, but my limbs feel uncoordinated, jittery. Adrenaline spikes, then fuzzes at the edges.
We stumble past the open stockroom door. I catch a glimpse of fluorescent light, metal shelving, the exit sign above the back door. I open my mouth around his arm and try to scream anyway, a garbled, animal sound.
“Shh,” he murmurs, and something sharp pricks the side of my neck.
