Page 65 of Ghosted

Her breath shakes.

My fingers move once more, mean and slow, and her whole body goes tight against the wall.

“Tomorrow too,” I say. “When you’re sitting in class acting bored. When you’re hiding behind that camera. When some poor idiot talks to you and you can’t focus because you still feel me exactly where I put myself.”

She makes another soft, wrecked sound.

I smile against her skin.

“That’s my girl,” I whisper. “Hate it all you want. You’re still taking it.”

That gets another sound out of her, softer this time, and it hits something ugly and satisfied in my chest. The part of me people dress up in softer words. Loyal. Protective. Attached.

They make it sound harmless, but it isn’t.

When I get attached, I get mean. When I want to protect something, I stop caring what I have to become to do it. And when something starts feeling like mine, I don’t loosen my grip just because it would be smarter.

Alice Aster is under my skin now.

In my head.

In my fucking blood.

I fix her clothes just enough to cover what I marked, then tuck myself back into my pants and step close again instead of away. My thumb brushes beneath the cut on her chest, not gentle enough to be sweet, not rough enough to make her pull back.

She watches me like she knows this changed something.

The rain falls harder around us, dripping from the trees, running down her face, washing mud around our boots. The mask lies in the dirt near my foot, white horns smeared brown, black eyes staring up at nothing.

I pick it up and shake the rain off.

Alice doesn’t move from the wall.

Doesn’t run or tell me to leave.

She just stands there with my mark under her shirt, my name still caught in her mouth, and that look in her eyes like she knows she should regret this but hasn’t figured out how yet.

My first claim.

And the sickest part?

She wanted it just as much as I did.

6

ALICE

THE LENS BETRAYS

Iwake up hoping last night was a dream.

A nightmare, preferably.

That would make things easier. Nightmares lose their teeth in daylight. They turn stupid once you’re awake, all shadows, impossible sounds and your brain being a dramatic asshole for no reason.

Except my room is still my room.

Second-floor walk-up. Too small and cold. Radiator hissing beneath the window like it’s fighting for its life. Rain ticking against the glass above my desk. Boots by the door, crusted with mud from the woods.