“Yeah, we’re dangerous, too. More so than you realize, I bet. You think you understand everything about this town, about the gods, about supernatural shit, but you don’t know half of it.”
“So tell me.”
“Not tonight.”
My throat is too sore to argue with him, so I fall silent. And then I fall asleep.
When I come back to consciousness, Heathcliff’s boots are crunching across the gravel of the church parking lot, heading for his truck. A single outdoor light illuminates the front door of the church. Moths flutter around that light—a kind of moth I’ve never seen before, with big splashes of deep scarlet on their wings. The church looks unfamiliar, dramatic, and dreadful, like someone holding a flashlight under their chin and pulling a wicked face. Its concrete foundation, stained bloody by red Carolina clay, has a wide crack near the east corner.
Heathcliff sets me down, props me against the truck like a doll, and opens the door before picking me up again and putting me on the passenger seat. As he leans in to fix my seat belt, I inhale his scent—the sweat of weariness, and the spicy remnants of the cologne he wore to church. His shaggy hair conceals the side of his face, all except his straight nose, full mouth, determined chin.
He’s so close, so ruggedly human, so warm and real and… Fuck it. I grab his jaw, twist his face toward mine, and kiss him. My lips are flaky and cracked, and there’s a sourness in my mouth, a metallichint of blood. He doesn’t seem to care. He shoves his hand into my hair, grasps the back of my skull, and kisses me brutally, until I can hardly find room to breathe.
The aching crush of our mouths is messy, and it hurts, and yet the salty, smooth heat of his lips and the wet, warm slide of his tongue in my mouth is the best thing I’ve ever experienced. It’s like he’s erasing the clinging film of death from my skin, bringing me back to life. I could swear, I feel the pain in my ankle easing, my irritated skin calming, my fingernail healing.
The seat belt clicks, and he breaks the kiss, backing away and closing the door of the truck. I’m left breathless and chilled, weak and ravenous for more.
I kissed him.
Whydid I do that? I touch my sore mouth.
When he swings into the driver’s seat, I manage words. “Thank you for everything you did tonight.”
“Any decent person would have done the same.”
No. They wouldn’t. “We can’t hang out again.”
He laughs a little, hands tightening on the steering wheel. “You think you can fuck me, kiss me, thank me, and then kick me to the curb? It’s not gonna be that easy, Princess. I’m in your life now, like it or not, and you’re in mine.” He starts the engine. “Let’s get you home.”
Neither of us speak again until we reach my house. I’m not sure how he knows where I live. True, most people in Wicklow know the Earnshaw place…but the Lockwoods don’t live within the town limits. Dad says most of them live over in Coosaw, a neighboring town, and they don’t come to Wicklow or to my family’s house on Wuthering Lane.
Wuthering Lane is a quiet road, with houses spaced far apart,screened from each other by cedars and magnolias. My house is a huge, old, rambling colonial, much larger than anything we could afford if we bought it new nowadays. It’s a family place, owned by generations of Earnshaws—a pillared, gabled two-story with dirty white siding, a wraparound porch, and a balcony on the second floor. A semicircle drive curves through the wide lawn, sweeps past the porch, and swerves back to the road.
In the half-circle of turf outlined by the driveway rears a massive live oak, its thick branches arching upward before plunging back down to run low along the ground. Spanish moss drapes every bough, turning the tree into a hulking, gray-bearded monster as the beams of Heathcliff’s truck slice across it.
He pulls up, leaves the engine running, and comes around to help me up the walk to the porch. Dad left the two porch lights on, but all the windows in the house are dark. Guess I should be grateful he’s not awake to witness Heathcliff Lockwood bringing me home.
I shake free of Heathcliff’s hand as I mount the last step to the porch. The imprint of his fingers stays on my skin, searing, tingling.
He surveys the dark house with narrowed eyes. “You need me to come in, help you get settled?”
“My dad would shoot you if he caught you inside.”
His mouth twists in a half smile, but the expression vanishes almost instantly as his gaze drops to my feet. “I’ll need my socks back.”
“Oh. Sure.” I pull them off, noting that my sprained ankle looks much less swollen than I thought it would. Feels pretty good, too. I’m healing faster than usual this time.
I ball up the socks and toss them to Heathcliff. He catches them, stuffs them in his pocket. “I carried your shoes along for a while, but then I left ’em behind. You don’t need thoseankle-breakers anyway.”
Something about his statement ticks me off—a possessiveness, an intent to dictate my choices, a hint ofI know what’s best for you. I don’t like the vibe, so I snap, “I’ll wear whatever shoes I want, thanks.”
His dark eyes spark as he catches the belligerence in my tone. “Sure. Fine. Go ahead and break your ankle next time. See if I care.”
“No one asked you to care.”
“So when you thanked me earlier, that was just performative, huh?”
“Performative?” I raise my eyebrows. “The scruffy delivery guy sure knows some big words.”
