Annabel seems oblivious—or maybe she isn’t. Maybe she enjoys the tension, thrives on it. She’s like a flame, and we’re both moths, drawn to her light even as it threatens to consume us.
As the sun sinks lower, painting the sky in shades of gold and crimson, Annabel leans back on her elbows, her eyes half-closed. “This,” she says, her voice soft, “is perfect.”
Jonathan glances at her, his expression softening. “It is.”
I look at her too, but my gaze lingers on her face, memorizing every detail. The curve of her lips, the line of her jaw, the way her lashes cast shadows on her cheeks.
She opens her eyes and catches me staring. For a moment, neither of us looks away. Then she smiles, and it feels like a challenge.
“Careful, Calum,” she says, her tone teasing. “I might start to think you like me.”
“Maybe I do,” I say, my voice steady.
Jonathan stiffens, but Annabel just laughs, her head tilting back as if the idea is the most absurd thing she’s ever heard. “Oh, Calum,” she says, shaking her head. “You’re trouble.”
“Am I?” I ask, leaning forward. “Or are you?”
Her smile widens, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of us. “There’s a festival next weekend, you should come to the masquerade ball.”
“Should I?” A smile curves my lips.
But then Jonathan clears his throat, breaking the spell. “It’s getting late,” he says, his tone clipped. “We should go.”
Annabel pouts, but she doesn’t argue. She stands, brushing sand from her dress, and offers me her hand. “Thanks for the company,” she says. “I hope we meet again. Maybe at one of your gallery openings.”
I take her hand, holding it a moment longer than necessary. “I’m sure we will.”
Jonathan doesn’t say goodbye. He just gathers the basket and walks ahead, his shoulders tense.
As they disappear down the beach, I pick up my sketchbook and stare at the page. Annabel’s face looks back at me, her expression caught somewhere between a smile and a secret.
I close the book, the edges of her laughter still echoing in my mind.
Chapter Four
Calum
The memories cut like a weapon. They come back in waves, leaving a lasting ache that reminds me she was real. That our connection was honest and pure and not just a figment of my mind. I’m choosing to drown in the pain because it’s the only reminder of her I have left. She’s burrowed into the very marrow of my bones.
Love is the most destructive force of all, I think, as Annabel stares back at me from the canvas, her eyes accusing even in the smudges of wet oil. My brush hangs limp in my hand, the strokes half-hearted. Something about the storm feels different tonight—more alive, more... aware.
Then it starts.
A sharp, violent thud rattles the window to my left. My first thought is a branch from one of the old oaks outside, but another bang follows, then another. Each strike is rhythmic, purposeful. I glance toward the pane, dread slithering up my spine.
Hands. Pale, translucent, clawing at the glass.
Let me in. Let me in. Let me in.
I freeze, the brush slipping from my fingers and clattering onto the wooden floor. The hands move with an unnatural fluidity, their movements jerky and frantic, pressing harder against the glass as if trying to break through. They leave streaks of moisture—no, blood—smearing the window.
The air grows colder, thickening with an unnatural chill. My breath fogs as I stumble to my feet, my pulse pounding in my ears. I move toward the window, my steps hesitant, my body trembling with something primal. As I approach, the hands vanish, leaving only faint, bloody streaks behind.
A loud crash echoes from the other side of the house. My head snaps toward the sound, the hairs on my neck standing on end. I rush through the narrow hallway, my bare feet slipping on the floor as I round the corner. Another crash, louder this time, reverberates through the house.
The shutters. I need to lock the shutters.
I grab a lantern from the kitchen counter and make my way through the cottage, fastening the locks on each window. The storm roars louder as I move, as though trying to drown out my thoughts, to shake my resolve. The hands return, pounding against the glass wherever I go. I refuse to look at them directly, focusing instead on the locks and bolts, my hands fumbling in the dim light.
