Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 89572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
“Who? Who’s close?” I wrench against his grip, but he doesn’t let go. His fingers clamp tight around my wrist, thumb brushing dangerously close to the fresh, burning line.
Tears burn my eyes. “Let me go.”
“I can’t.” He sighs. “Emery, what’ve you done?” Misery bleeds through his words.
My pulse pounds against the seared ring, throbbing like it has its own heartbeat. “What is that? What did you do to me?” I cry from both fear and pain.
He loosens his grip, enough for me to pull free, but I don’t. He drags his thumb gently over the faint green line, and for a moment the sting fades. Then he yanks his hand away, cursing under his breath like it burned him too.
“Nothing,” he lies.
“Sure.” My voice rises. “Totally normal to touch a person and end up branded like a glow stick!”
The haunted darkness in his eyes kills any hope of him joking back.
“Please,” I press, waving my arm in front of his face. “What is this?”
His jaw ticks but he slides his gaze away. “You came here looking for a story.”
What does my story have to do with anything? “So, this is my fault?”
He shoves his hands through his hair, the muscles of his arms tight against the fabric of his shirt.
Bad, Emery. Don’t let those fantastic forearms distract you now.
“It’s not your fault,” he says.
“Good to know,” I mutter. “What is this then? How do I get rid of it? Tell me something.”
Finally, he lifts his head. The weight of his stare pins me in place.
“You wanted to know if the stories were real?” His voice is low, rough. “Well, now you’re part of one.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Declan
The green band around Emery’s wrist is both a brand and a beacon. It glows with an ethereal light against her skin. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not to Emery. The mark is my curse to carry whether I want it or not. It shouldn’t be hers.
And my tattoos…they’ve gone mad.
They crawl under my skin with the restlessness of a nest of serpents. The horse on my shoulder paws at my flesh, its head twisting as if trying to see the mark on her. The braided tack along my ribs burns like hot iron, and the sigils writhe, screaming a silent alarm. They’ve tasted her blood, and they’re alive and eager for more.
“Goddammit,” I breathe.
The shop answers with a shiver. Windowpanes rattle. Somewhere below our feet, the hollow thud of iron-shod hooves hammers a low vibration through the soles of my boots. A tremor that has nothing to do with the earth.
The glass display cases in the shop rattle. Emery’s eyes are wide, fixed on the mark around her wrist, her breath coming in shallow pants.
There’s no time to explain or apologize.
I yank her against my chest, spinning so my back is to the front door, shielding her from whatever’s coming. Her body’s stiff, rigid with shock, but she doesn’t fight me. Not yet.
Her smaller body fits against mine perfectly.
“We need to get out of here. Now,” I growl into her hair, my words clipped and urgent.
She pulls back and stares up at me with wide, wild eyes. “What are—”
“No time for questions. Move.” Fear coils in my gut, sharpening my tone.
He knows. The Rider knows. 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 to kill her. No, he wants something worse. To mark her. Take her. Bind her to him for eternity.
Over my dead body.
Normally, I’d scare them off. But I’m torn. Protect the town that’s decided tourist dollars matter more than tourists’ lives by 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.