Total pages in book: 32
Estimated words: 33333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 167(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 167(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
I grab her wrist before she moves away. “My turn.”
She freezes. “Excuse me?”
I sit up slowly, taking her with me because I still haven’t let go. “Truth or dare.”
She tries to pull free. I don’t let her.
“What are my options,” she asks, voice a little too light.
“You know them.”
She bites her bottom lip. I watch her do it and my restraint wobbles. “Truth.”
Of course she picks safe first.
Fine.
I brush my thumb over her pulse just once. “Why did you come here.”
She blinks. “I won a retreat.”
“No.” I lean closer. “Why here. Why Devil’s Peak. Why my lodge. Why alone.”
She swallows. Her guard flickers. “Because I needed a reset.”
“Try again.”
She pulls her hand from mine. “Your turn is over.”
“It’s a yes-or-no question,” I lie.
“It’s neither.”
“It’s a simple truth.”
“It’s not.”
“You’re dodging.”
“You’re invasive.”
Silence cuts sharp between us. Her chest rises and falls. Mine mirrors hers. Then—from nowhere—she says softly:
“My parents loved Halloween. It was our thing. Haunted houses, pumpkin carving, dumb costumes.” Her voice goes quiet. “This holiday—it’s how I keep them close.”
My breath stills.
I didn’t expect her to answer at all—let alone like that. Something inside my chest twists. She looks down at her hands, like she regrets speaking.
So I do something I shouldn’t.
I tell the truth back.
“My mom used to send me candy corn in care packages,” I say gruffly. “When I was deployed. I fucking hate candy corn.”
She looks up, surprised.
“But I ate every piece,” I finish. “Because she sent it.”
Aspen stares at me.
And for one beat, one long suspended moment—we’re not enemies. Not rivals. Not in a war.
Just two people telling the truth in a room full of ghosts.
She breathes. I breathe.
Then she whispers, “Your turn. Truth or dare?”
“Truth.”
Her eyes dare me. “Why haven’t you touched me yet?”
She might as well have detonated a grenade.
My pulse detonates. My patience detonates. The last thread of my control snaps.
I move slow—too slow—closing the space between us until I feel her breath against my mouth. My voice drags low.
“Because,” I say, “once I touch you—I won’t stop.”
Her pupils blow wide. She sways closer.
“Once I get my hands on you,” I murmur, “I’m not giving you back.”
Air rushes between us. Heat. Gravity. Hunger.
She whispers, “Then maybe you should—”
A shriek splits the air. Aspen screams and launches backward as a black blur explodes out of the fireplace.
“What the—”
“BAT!” she screeches, diving behind me.
Chaos erupts. A furious, winged demon banshee circles violently overhead, screaming vengeance from the depths of its hellish soul. Aspen clings to me like she has a death wish. I don’t know whether to laugh or duck.
The bat dive-bombs us again. Aspen lets out a high-pitched noise that might be a curse or prayer.
“It’s going to kill us!” she cries.
“It’s an ounce of fluff with wings,” I tell her.
“It has fangs!”
“So do squirrels.”
“That is NOT comforting!”
The bat swoops again. I grab the bear pelt blanket off the couch and swing it like a net.
Aspen shrieks, “Get it! Get it! Get it!”
“If you keep screaming it will go for your mouth.”
She clamps her hands over her lips with a muffled, “Mmmph!”
I catch the winged gremlin mid-air and wrap it gently in the blanket until it stops flapping.
Aspen stares at me like I’ve just wrestled Lucifer.
I carry it to the door, set it free, and watch it flap dramatically into the night.
Aspen sags to the floor, clutching her chest. “Is your entire life a survival video?”
“Sometimes.”
“That was the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”
I smirk. “That was a Tuesday.”
Her eyes narrow. “You’re lucky I don’t charge for pest control,” I tell her.
She flips me off. “You’re lucky I don’t sue for emotional trauma.”
“You’re lucky you still have a pulse.”
She glares. “You’re lucky your abs have pumpkins now, because I’m telling everyone you begged me for it.”
“You’re lucky you’re still breathing.”
“That’s a threat.”
“No,” I say, stepping close again, voice like a promise. “That’s a reminder.”
She rises to her feet, stubborn as hell. “Of what?”
“That I haven’t even started yet.”
We stare each other down.
She licks her lips—slow, nervous.
“You didn’t answer,” she whispers. “What are you going to do when you finally do touch me?”
I step close enough to feel her tremble. My voice burns low.
“Everything.”
She shivers.
And I don’t kiss her.
Not yet.
Because she asked for truth—and I gave it.
Next comes consequence.
And that—God help us both—is going to change everything.
Chapter 9
Aspen
The storm hasn’t let up in hours.
It howls like a living thing outside the windows of Devil’s Peak Lodge, clawing at the walls, shaking loose a gutter every so often in a way that makes me flinch and curse under my breath. Wind keeps trying to peel the roof off while snow piles higher against the door.
The power’s still out. The generator’s still dead. So I’ve spread candles across the room like some séance-loving vampire queen. And yes, I did light the pumpkin spice one. It’s a coping mechanism. So is the blanket I’m wrapped in. And the fact that I’m currently reading ghost stories out loud—to myself.