But I don’t. I go home. Because I know this much: I will not let him take her.
I don’t care if I have to fight magic with law, or law with blood, or blood with spells that haven’t been spoken in fifty years.
I’m not the same woman he left. And if he wants a war then he picked the wrong Hollow.
CHAPTER 24
HARDIN
Ismell him before I see him.
Some bitter cocktail of cologne and smug, soaked into every thread of that too-clean suit. It doesn’t belong here. Doesn’t mix right with the moss and loam and pine that cling to the Hollow like a second skin. That smell’s sharp, like varnish on rot, and I catch it hanging in the air long after he’s gone.
I’m too late to see the exchange, but I see the way Krista’s standing on the porch, one hand on the frame like it’s the only thing holding her up. Her fingers are white around the wood, and her eyes are staring straight ahead, focused on something long gone but still clawing at the inside of her chest.
I don’t ask.
I don’t need to.
The fog tells me everything. So do the trees. They’re restless. Not whispering, exactly, just watching. Waiting.
I move up the path and she doesn’t flinch when I reach her. Doesn’t speak. Just lets out this little breath, barely audible, like her lungs were frozen and I just opened the door to let the heat back in.
“He came,” I say, low. Flat. Because if I put anything more into it, the rage will find a foothold, and I won’t stop until there’s nothing left but red.
Krista nods, eyes still far off. “He filed for custody.”
I don’t know how she says it without breaking. Her voice is too calm. Too damn controlled. Like she’s trying to believe if she stays steady, everything around her won’t shake apart.
“He’s not gonna win,” I say.
She doesn’t nod this time. Doesn’t say anything at all.
Instead, she turns, walks back inside, quiet as a ghost. The door shuts behind her with a soft click.
But I don’t follow. I can’t.
My fists are already clenched too tight. And if I walk in there now, I won’t be able to hold it back.
So I stay outside.
And I wait.
Two hours later,I’m in the woods.
Not patrolling. Guarding.
I know every root, every bend of branch, every hidden turn in the winding path around their cottage. I don’t bother with trails. I don’t need them. I move through the underbrush silent as breath, barefoot, bare-chested, scars bright against my skin in the moonlight.
This place is alive, and it breathes with me. It hums low when I pass, warns me when something shifts. And tonight, it’s twitchy. Not dangerous, not afraid. Just alert. Like the forest’s picked a side.
And it’s not his.
I catch the scent again around midnight, thin and smug and trying too hard not to leave a trace.
He came back. He didn’t knock this time. Didn’t approach the front. He circled.
Looking. Hunting.
