“No time for questions. Move.” Fear coils in my gut, sharpening my tone.
He knows. The Riderknows. And he’s coming for her.
Keeping one arm locked around her, I snatch the keys off the counter. The rattling in the shop continues. Emery whimpers and curls her fingers in my shirt. I kill the lights and drag her through the back hall, slamming the door behind us. I fumble with my keys, my movements jerky, but finally I get the key in the lock and turn the deadbolt with a satisfying click. Every shadow on the wall seems to stretch and twitch like they want to detach and follow along.
We burst into the back parking lot. Fog rolls low, swallowing the glow of the security lamps. A cluster of tourists gathers near the west gate to the cemetery, flashlights bobbing, chatter harsh in the heavy night.
“Look at the fog, bro! It’s insane here!” one tourist shouts. “Perfect ghost hunting weather!”
My blood runs cold.Idiots. They’re gleefully walking into the hunting ground. They might make it out alive, they might not. The Rider’s nothing if not unpredictable. Anyone in his path is a potential casualty.
But Emery? He doesn’t want tokillher. No, he wants something worse. To mark her. Take her. Bind her to him for eternity.
Overmydead body.
Normally, I’d scare them off. But I’m torn. Protect the town that’s decided tourist dollars matter more than tourists’livesby encouraging people to visit the Widow. Or protect Emery. The duty that comes with my name, with the oath that’s bound my family for generations, claws at me. But the burn of her mark pressed to my side sears hotter.
My jaw clenches.
I can waste time warning them away, or I can get Emery to safety.
“Go on.” I nudge her toward my motorcycle.
“What? I thought you lived upstairs?”
“I do.” I shove my helmet into her hands. It’s the only one I have. “But it’s not safe enough anymore.”
Her fingers curl around it, hesitant. Christ. No one’s ridden behind me in years, and the idea of Emery pressed close, her arms around me—it’s the only thing I want, and I can’t let myself enjoy.
Emery
Helmet. I stare at the sleek black dome. It’s heavier than I expected. Solid enough to feel like a weapon in my hands. How do I even put it on?
Declan’s tense expression moves in closer. He throws a hasty glance over his shoulder, then pries the helmet from my fingers. “Here, let me help you. We don’t have a lot of time.”
“Why?” I hold up my wrist, still throbbing from the glowing green band. “What is this? What’s happening? Where are we going?”
He gently places the helmet on my head and secures the chin strap, his knuckles grazing my jaw. A shiver of desire sparks over my skin.
“I’ll explain when we get there. But we have to go, now.”
“I’ve never ridden on a motorcycle before,” I blurt out, my voice high and shaky. I’ve neverwantedtobeon one before. They look like two-wheeled bets against physics.
But the idea of being pressed up close to Declan seems worth the risk.
“I’ll get on first,” he explains. “Then use my shoulder to boost yourself up and over.”
He grips the handlebars, swings his leg over the big machine, and settles into the seat. “One foot on the peg.” He points down to a small metal piece sticking out.
Clutching his shoulder, I tap my foot to one of the pegs, testing whether it will hold my weight.
The air around us shifts. The fog thickens, pulling tight as if it wants to cinch us inside a noose. A low vibration travels through the pavement, steady and deliberate, like hoofbeats striking just beneath the surface of the earth. My stomach clenches even though my brain doesn’t recognize the sound.
“Hurry,” he urges. “Use my shoulder for leverage.”
I grip his biceps, then move my hand higher. In an awkward and graceless move, I swing my leg up and over. But there’s nowhere to really sit.
“I…uh…”
