“Not here.” He crowds me backward, step by step. My gaze darts around us, never stopping on one thing for too long. The fog loses patience. It rolls along, the black shape coalescing at the edge of the flashlight’s beam and holds. Waiting.
The Widow looms to our left. The green on her cheeks wet and fresh.
“Emery.” Declan’s voice dips, no warning this time—concern. Something warmer that hits a place I thought life had armored shut.
I hate that I want to lean into him.
“Let me go,” I say, voice trembling. He doesn’t. His arm locks me against him, a shield of muscle and heat. His heart hammers against my cheek, steady as a drum. Clean soap fills my nose, undercut by clove and the salty tang of sweat. Warmth rolls off him like a wildfire, and we fit together so well it spikes my temper.
The ground jolts under a new strike of hooves. The iron gate at the bottom of the hill rattles and shudders with the forceof something massive running into it. Except, there’s nothing there.
Declan continues moving us with slow, methodical steps, like he’s the only thing standing between me and a row of open graves. We pass headstone after headstone without saying a word. My breath tangles in the sound of leather snapping, iron striking, something breathing that shouldn’t.
Then, piece by piece, the weight of whatever pursued us lifts. The fog thins. Quiet creeps in.
Declan doesn’t let go. Only when the path widens does his grip finally loosen. He doesn’t stop until we’re through the gate and the iron has groaned behind us, latch closing with a low screech.
I whirl around to face him. “Why did you?—”
He lifts his hand. Not as a way to silence me. But to examine me. His fingers hover over my face like he expects to find glass shards there. Or teeth marks. A shiver of unwanted desire or longing runs through me. I shouldn’t want his touch or even his concern. Rough fingers gently skim my cheek. Then his forehead creases. He seems to realize what he’s doing and drops his hand to his side.
“You think you know everything. Think this town is the same as all the other places you’ve investigated,” he says, voice low, almost conversational now, which is somehow worse than if he were yelling at me. “It’s not.”
“Something’s going on here.” My breath’s still ragged. “A kid is missing. Your sheriff wants me gone. You physically removed me from a public cemetery. And please tell me why a statue and some fog made your eyes look weird.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “My eyes look like eyes.”
“What was that?” I demand, even though I doubt he’ll give me an answer. “You told me I don’t know what it wants from me. What does it want? What isit?”
He looks past me toward the way we just came. I follow his line of sight and realize we left through a different gate than the one I entered. I swivel my head, checking out the surroundings. A dark alley. Tall, brick buildings, a parking area with a few cars and one motorcycle. The fog rolls in, heavier than before. I glance at the cemetery again—the gate stands like a mouth shut against a silent scream.
“Promises,” he says finally. “It wants promises kept.”
A chill skates down my arms.
“And me?” I force the words out. “What does it want fromme?”
His gaze drops to my mouth. Not fair. He shouldn’t be allowed to have eyes that pull at me with the strength of a merciless undertow. And he has no right to be so warm when I’m chilled to the bone, or steady when my knees won’t stop wobbling.
Heat sparks low in my belly, insistent and unhelpful.
“Less than you think.” He takes me in, his gaze raking over my body, then back to meet my eyes. “More than I like.”
Is that supposed to be a confession or a warning? Either way, I want to get closer to him. He seems to sense my intention and steps back first.
“Stay away from that hill after midnight,” he says. “Stay away from the statue.”
Who does he think he is, ordering me around? “And if I don’t?”
His lips twitch again. Threatening to break into the almost-smile he won’t share with me. “Then I’ll keep dragging you out.”
“Is that supposed to be a threat or a promise?”
“Both.”
We stare at each other. The fog curls around our ankles, as persistent as a cat that adopted us against our will.
“Goodnight, Declan,” I say, because I need to break whatever this is between us before it breaks me. He thinks I’m nothing more than a foolish twit, filming herself in cemeteries in the middle of the night for Internet fame. I’ve been ridiculed and dismissed by enough people in my life. I’m not tolerating it from a brooding stranger, no matter how attractive he is.
