Page 24

“Earth to Cal,” she says, snapping her fingers in the air.

“Oh, right,” I say. “Um, can we—”

I throw a thumb over my shoulder toward downstairs. As long as she’s lying in her bed like that, I’m not going to be able to talk about a single thing. Lots of other unwarranted thoughts come to mind, though. I bat them away.

Lydia sits upright and then stands, prowling toward me like a predatory little siren. Her eyes are alight with mischief as I push off the doorframe, watching her stop in front of me. I suck in a breath as she runs a single finger down my chest and forget to exhale as she drags it all the way down to the fucking waistband of my sweats. She drops her hand altogether, gazing up at me through dark lashes. Maybe she’s not a witch then. Maybe she’s a siren, sent to lure me to my watery grave.

“Does it make you uncomfortable to be in my bedroom, Callum?” she asks.

I finally remember to breathe, nearly choking on my own saliva. The suggestion laced in her words sends my nerve endings into overdrive. Her tongue darts out to wet her lower lip, my eyes dropping to her mouth as she pushes up on her toes until our bodies nearly meet. All I can do is stare down at her. I am transfixed, unable to formulate a single thought. When she reaches a hand toward me again, I react on instinct. I grab her wrist and pin her back against the wall. One of my hands holds her wrist to the wall above her head, the one with the cast pressed firmly against her hip. It’s healing quickly, and I hardly feel it. Especially now.

She pants beneath me, those vivid blue eyes wide as they lock onto mine. Her free hand drifts toward my hair, but I catch it before she can make contact—pinning her wrist to the wall beside the other.

“Careful, love,” I warn, my voice laced with careful restraint.

I stare down at her, my own desire attempting to cloud my judgment in the most intoxicating way. Her lips part as she pushes her hips into me, and I nearly groan at the contact. Her eyes shift to my mouth, and it takes an astronomical amount of effort not to give in to her. It would be so easy. It would be—

My thoughts are suddenly halted when Lydia’s face transforms into Dorian Reilly. I push away from him, her, blinking a few times to clear my mind. I run my hands through my loose hair, pacing back and forth.

“Callum?” Lydia asks, her voice so close.

“Don’t,” I say, a little too harshly.

“What’s going on?” she asks, her tone giving away the hurt she feels from my rejection. When I open my eyes again, she’s got her arms crossed over her chest, and she’s staring up at me with fire in her eyes.

“Lydia, it’s not—”

“No way. Do not give me that ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ bullshit, Callum. I swear to the stars, if you even—”

“No, it’s none of that,” I say. “This is the reason I came here. Can we just go back downstairs and talk about it?”

She narrows her eyes at me and then turns on her heels and takes off down the stairs. I follow, knowing that I have a ton of explaining to do if I want to make this right. But do I? Do I want to make this right, whatever this is? Wouldn’t it be easier to let her think that I don’t want her than to drag her further into this dangerous frequency bullshit with me?

There’s a small part of me that aches at the thought of hurting her. I’m realizing very quickly that Lydia Aston isn’t only under my skin but burrowing deep within the layers like some invasive parasite. I need to stop it.

She walks over to her sofa and sits on the far-right corner. I take a seat on the opposite end, facing her. She’s angry with me, furious even. She wears her emotions like armor, loud and proud for everyone to see. Despite myself, I like that she’s a fighter. Even if I’m the one she’s fighting.

“Talk,” she snaps.

I sigh, leaning back into the sofa arm. “I lied back there at the storage unit,” I start. “I didn’t pass out, but I did see things.”

“See things?” she asks, her posture relaxing only slightly.

“It was like I was in another place, reliving shit from my past. I don’t know if it’s hallucinations or just some fucked-up form of PTSD. It’s been going on for a while now, ever since the Eden Frequency stopped. It’s worse now, after the music box incident. Sometimes I can’t tell what’s real and what isn’t, and now I’m losing time,” I say, laying it all out. I instantly feel a fraction lighter.

“Oh,” she says, uncrossing her arms and playing with the frayed edges of a deep orange throw pillow. “Do you think this all has to do with the frequencies then, and the music box?”

“Yeah, I do. I wish I knew how to stop it, or if it will progress.” I pause. “I wish I knew who was doing this to us so that I could put a fucking stop to it.”

“What kind of hallucinations?” she asks.

For a second, I’m caught off guard before I realize what she’s asking. I choose not to tell her about Kaila, at least not entirely. I’ve barely spoken to another soul about that night, and I won’t be starting now.

“Images of Dorian’s face, memories from the past,” I say, keeping it surface level.

“Uh-huh,” she says, eyeing me curiously. “What brought you here, then?”

“I saw you,” I say.