Meredith presses her lips together, refusing to answer. But the telltale quiver of her chin, the flicker of recognition in her eyes—it gives her away.
I smile, and I know it’s the kind of smile that used to scare the others back then. After she left. The kind that saysI know something you don’t.
“Sugarplum,” I coo, tilting my head as I stare into her eyes. “How could you forget me so easily?”
She stares up at me, confusion knitting her brow. “What…?”
I study her face, tracing the adult features over the ghost of the girl I knew: the slope of her nose, the shape of her mouth, the angry eyes. Ten years have sharpened her, but she’s still her. I understand her confusion, after all the man that used to call her by the same nickname is much older and doesn't resemble me at all.
“Did you not like my gift?” I ask lightly. “The snow globe. I had it made just for you.”
The change is instant. Her eyes widen, breath catching. I see it hit: brown paper, gold ribbon, a cabin under glass.
“It was you,” she breathes.
Warm satisfaction unfurls in my chest. Finally. I let my fingers tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, knuckles grazing her jaw. She shudders under the touch.
“It’s been a long time, Sugarplum,” I murmur, my thumb sweeping over the high curve of her cheek. God, I’ve imagined this so many times. “I’ve missed you so much.”
She searches my face then, really looks at me. Her gaze drags over my jaw, my mouth, my eyes. I can almost see her peeling back ten years in her head—stripping away height, muscle, the man—and finding the boy underneath.
Her mouth falls open. “Nicholas...?” she whispers, voice hitching.
“There it is,” I purr. “There’s my girl.”
Horror, disbelief, and something that looks suspiciously like guilt wash over her features. Good. She should feel it. She walked out of that house and never looked back while I rotted in it for years.
She looks me over with new eyes now, taking in the man instead of the costume. Her gaze snags on my shoulders, the breadth of my chest, the hands that just tied and ungagged her. Color crawls into her cheeks.
“You like me better now,” I say, letting a smirk tug at my mouth. “I could feel it in the plaza.”
Confusion flashes across her face, tinted with shame. I lean closer, lowering my voice.
“You were leaning into me under those lights,” I remind her. “Waiting for me to kiss you.” My jaw tightens as I remember how close I was. How badly I wanted to taste her there, instead of here. “I almost did. But I needed to bring you home first.”
The word hangs in the air. Home.
It pulls her focus away from me, finally. She tears her gaze from my face to look around, really seeing the room for the first time.
The oil lamp on the dresser throws a thin circle of amber light over rough log walls. Shadows pool in the corners. The air is thick with smoke from the fire in the next room, the dry tang of old wood and something green and sharp—pine boughs I dragged in hours ago. The floorboards are scarred and dusty under her knees.
Her eyes catch on the window. The glass is wavy with age, the night beyond it black and close. But she doesn’t have to see what’s outside to know it’s there. I know the shape of that dread on her face.
Across the clearing, past the thin screen of trees, sits the sagging two-story house we grew up in. Peeling paint. Boarded windows. Rotting steps. A silhouette of misery backlit by moonlight.
“No,” she whispers, so softly I almost don’t catch it. Her voice is drenched in dread. “No, no, no...”
A cold smile touches my lips as I watch her. “Yes,” I breathe, confirming what she didn’t truly ask. “We’re back where it all started.”
She explodes into motion. One second she’s frozen; the next she’s surging up, scrambling to her feet despite the rope around her ankles. She sways, nearly goes down, then finds her balance by sheer force of panic.
I follow her up automatically, hands out to catch her if she falls. Even now, the idea of her cracking her head on these boards makes my stomach roil.
Instead of falling, she drags in breath like she’s going to tear the walls down with it.
“Help!” Meredith screams. “Somebody help me!”
The sound is sharp and raw, rattling the little room, ricocheting off the logs. For a heartbeat, I’m twelve again in that house across the clearing—hearing her younger voice shreddingitself on the same word, small fists slamming against a locked door while the TV blared and nobody moved.
