“Isn’t it?” he challenges, his eyes blazing. “The only thing I know for sure is that we are the same, Annabel. Our souls are haunted with the same darkness, the same need for more.”
“That’s… that’s not true,” but my words come out pathetic, soft, weak. I don’t believe them and neither will he.
“Bullshit. You love him. Fine. But don’t pretend you don’t feel something for me too.”
I open my mouth to argue, to deny it, but the words won’t come. Because he’s right. I do feel something for him. I always have.
“You’re different,” I say finally, my voice barely above a whisper. “You and Calum… you’re like night and day. I need both, but I can’t have that, can I?”
“No,” he says firmly, stepping even closer. “You can’t.”
The air between us crackles with tension, the unspoken truths and years of history bubbling to the surface. I should walk away. I should go back to the house, to Calum, to the safety of what I’ve chosen. But I don’t move.
Jonathan reaches out, his hand brushing against mine, and for a moment, I let him. His touch is warm, grounding, and it reminds me of that night in the hydrangeas, when everything felt so much simpler.
But it’s not simple anymore. And it never will be.
“I can’t,” I say, pulling away. “I can’t do this.”
He watches me for a moment, his expression unreadable, before stepping back. “Then go,” he says quietly. “But don’t expect me to be here when you come back.”
The words slice through me, sharp and final, but I don’t look back. I turn and walk toward the house, each step heavier than the last.
Inside, Calum is still painting, his world untouched by the storm brewing just outside. I pause in the doorway, watching him, and for a moment, I envy his oblivion. But then he looks up, his face lighting up at the sight of me, and I remember why I chose him.
Even if it means losing everything else.
Chapter Fourteen
Calum
The graveyard breathes with an eerie calm as dusk settles over it, painting the world in hues of deep gray and lavender. My footsteps crunch on the gravel path, the sound unnervingly loud in the otherwise silent expanse. Holiday House looms behind me, a silhouette against the stormy sky, its windows dark and watchful. This isn’t the first time I’ve wandered into the cemetery since coming back to Ravensreach, but it’s the first time I feel as though I don’t belong here.
The air thickens, damp with the scent of freshly turned earth and sea spray. My pulse quickens as I glance around, noting the shadows that stretch unnaturally long, shifting like they have lives of their own. I grip the coat around me tighter and wonder, not for the first time tonight, if I’m losing my mind.
Then I see them.
A group of figures drifts toward me from the far end of the graveyard, their movements fluid, unnatural, as if they’re gliding just above the ground. There are five of them, allshrouded in varying shades of translucence, their edges blurred as though viewed through frosted glass. They aren’t speaking, but their silence is oppressive, louder than any words. My breath catches as I realize their faces are hollow, eyes sunken and empty, yet somehow still fixed on me.
I take a step back, my instincts screaming at me to run, but my body won’t cooperate. I’m frozen, a spectator to my own unraveling. One of the figures raises a hand and points, the movement slow and deliberate. The others follow, their arms lifting in unison to gesture toward the edge of the cemetery, where the woods creep like dark fingers over the land.
No, not the woods.
Annabel’s grave.
A chill races down my spine, spreading like ice through my veins. I swallow hard and force my legs to move, each step heavier than the last. The group doesn’t follow, but I can feel their gaze boring into my back, their collective will pushing me toward the headstone I’ve avoided since her death.
When I reach it, I stop short, my chest tightening as if the air itself has turned against me. The grave is simple, unadorned. No flowers, no trinkets left behind by mourners. Just a slab of granite etched with her name:
Annabel Lee Dupin
Beloved Daughter, Eternal Muse
But it’s not the name that sends my heart into freefall. It’s the date beneath it.
The death date isn’t in the past; it’s in the future—weeks away. My breath quickens as I stare at the stone, the numbers blurring and reforming like a cruel trick of the mind. Thiscan’t be real. It’s impossible. Annabel is already gone. I was there when it happened—or at least, I felt it happen. I’ve been living with the weight of it ever since.
A rustling sound behind me snaps me out of my trance. I turn, half-expecting to see the group of ghosts again, but the cemetery is empty. The wind picks up, carrying the salty tang of the sea, and I shiver. When I look back at the headstone, the date hasn’t changed. It glares at me like a warning, a taunt.
