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)
I yelp. The world whirls. My shoulder slams into heat and muscle, and then I’m spun, pinned tight to a chest that might as well be stone.
“What are you doing?” The voice is gravel and smoke against my ear. Declan. Of course it’s Declan. Even in the dark, even through the adrenaline screaming in my ears, I recognize his voice.
“Documenting,” I snap, shoving my shoulder against him, which does exactly nothing. He doesn’t move. He just breathes, fast and rough, chest lifting against my back. The heat of him bleeds through my hoodie, warming my chilled skin.
“Get away from her!” he shouts. Is he yelling at me or the statue? He yanks me two steps sideways, away from the Widow’s lap, arms locked around my ribs. My back molds to him whether I want it to or not. His heart hammers into my spine, steady and brutal.
My eyes bug as the fog seems to lean, reaching for us.
“Stop manhandling me.” My heartbeat gallops fast enough to crack my ribs open. I struggle to free myself from his iron grip. “I was talking to the Weeping Widow.”
“Emery.” His mouth is right at my ear, breath hot against my cheek. “You don’t know what you’re calling. What it wants from you.”
“It’s a statue!” The bravado in my voice sounds fake to my own ears. “And some silly tourist horse. Are you always so dramatic?”
He doesn’t take my verbal bait. Nope, he manhandles me even farther away from the Widow. His grip should hurt but it doesn’t. He’s angry, yes, but he’s careful with me, almost gentle. The combination weakens my knees.
Fog ripples around us, as if reluctant to let go. Invisible hooves strike the ground with impatient intent. Somewhere behind us, bronze rings with a dull, miserable clang, like a funeral bell.
Declan curses low. The rumble travels through me. He pivots, dragging me with him, putting himself squarely between me and the Widow. The fog slams against his shoulders and breaks like water against rock.
What the hell?
“Look at me,” he demands.
“But I want to see the invisible horse,” I argue. There has to be a horse. There’s a logical explanation for all of this.
He spins me to face him. My gaze jumps to his eyes without my permission. They’re darker in the low light, pupils blown wide. The whites shine, almost silver.
“Don’t look. Never run to the open ground,” he says. “Don’t sit in the Widow’s lap. Don’t whisper any names to her.”
“Now you’re talkative?” I barely hide my outrage. “The man who refused to speak to me earlier suddenly has a list of rules to share?” I press my hand against his chest, desperately trying to put some distance between us but he’s impossible to move.
His jaw ticks. Something ripples under the skin of his throat and vanishes. A twitch of ink? No. Can’t be. The heat under my palm flares with the bite of a brand and I snatch my hand back with a hiss.
“What is that?” I whisper.
“Not here.” He crowds me backward, step by step. My gaze darts around us, never stopping on one thing for too long. The fog loses patience. It rolls along, the black shape coalescing at the edge of the flashlight’s beam and holds. Waiting.
The Widow looms to our left. The green on her cheeks wet and fresh.
“Emery.” Declan’s voice dips, no warning this time—concern. Something warmer that hits a place I thought life had armored shut.
I hate that I want to lean into him.
“Let me go,” I say, voice trembling. He doesn’t. His arm locks me against him, a shield of muscle and heat. His heart hammers against my cheek, steady as a drum. Clean soap fills my nose, undercut by clove and the salty tang of sweat. Warmth rolls off him like a wildfire, and we fit together so well it spikes my temper.
The ground jolts under a new strike of hooves. The iron gate at the bottom of the hill rattles and shudders with the force of something massive running into it. Except, there’s nothing there.
Declan continues moving us with slow, methodical steps, like he’s the only thing standing between me and a row of open graves. We pass headstone after headstone without saying a word. My breath tangles in the sound of leather snapping, iron striking, something breathing that shouldn’t.
Then, piece by piece, the weight of whatever pursued us lifts. The fog thins. Quiet creeps in.
Declan doesn’t let go. Only when the path widens does his grip finally loosen. He doesn’t stop until we’re through the gate and the iron has groaned behind us, latch closing with a low screech.
I whirl around to face him. “Why did you—”
He lifts his hand. Not as a way to silence me. But to examine me. His fingers hover over my face like he expects to find glass shards there. Or teeth marks. A shiver of unwanted desire or longing runs through me. I shouldn’t want his touch or even his concern. Rough fingers gently skim my cheek. Then his forehead creases. He seems to realize what he’s doing and drops his hand to his side.