Bitten Hearts (Coming Soon)

It smelled like pine, dust, and forgotten things. Margot pressed her forehead to the car window, watching the trees shift past like they were keeping secrets. Her aunt’s driveway curled through the woods like a coiled spine, paved in cracked asphalt and overgrown with moss. The kind of place that didn’t bother pretending to be welcoming. The trunk rattled. A wind chime clinked. A raven lifted from the fencepost with a caw that sounded too knowing. Her aunt—Eleanor Delaney—stood on the porch in faded jeans and a flannel, arms crossed, hair in a braid that had started to gray. She didn’t smile. Margot didn’t either. “You packed light,” Eleanor said. “I left heavy,” Margot answered. Silence fell into the space between them. Not awkward. Just... hollow. Inside the house, everything smelled like chamomile and cedar. Dusty framed photos. A locked cabinet in the hallway. A flickering light above the cellar door Eleanor didn’t acknowledge. Margot kept her bags zipped tight. She hadn’t unpacked in weeks. She wasn’t sure she would here either. Night came fast. At 7:03, Eleanor locked the doors. At 7:04, she pulled down the blinds. At 7:06, she lit a lavender candle and whispered something Margot didn’t catch. Outside, something howled. The clock blinked 1:22 a.m. Margot sat on the edge of her twin bed, listening. Hollowridge was quiet in a way cities never were. No sirens. No car horns. Just crickets, the occasional gust, and something… deeper. Like breathing. She pressed her foot to the hardwood floor, tested the groan beneath the boards. Eleanor had gone to bed hours ago—after locking every window, bolting the back door, and muttering about “moon-touched nonsense.” Margot didn’t believe in nonsense. She believed in distraction. The woods called softly. She tugged on sneakers, tied them too tight, and slipped her hoodie over bare shoulders. The porch creaked as she stepped onto it. Her breath made ghosts in the night air. The forest line was closer than it had seemed in daylight. Trees crowded the fence. The chimes above the gate spun lazily, whispering warnings in metallic tongues. She climbed over. The ground was soft. Needles underfoot, the sharp scent of pine rising as if in greeting. Her phone screen glowed uselessly—one bar, no signal. Something rustled. Margot froze. “Hello?” No answer. She stepped forward. And then—movement. A blur. Fast, low to the ground. Her breath hitched. Eyes—silver, gleaming—met hers through the underbrush. Pain lanced her calf. A flash of heat, of pressure, of something sinking in. She stumbled, breath torn from her chest, hands gripping dirt. The blur vanished. Everything throbbed. Then: footsteps. Slow. Heavy. A figure emerged from the treeline. Tall, lean, haloed by moonlight. Silas Vale. His shirt was missing. His eyes… weren’t quite human. But his voice was. “You weren’t supposed to be out here.” Margot stared at him. Then at her bleeding leg. Then in the forest, suddenly so alive. Something inside her shifted. Margot didn’t remember walking back. She remembered the way her leg burned. The way Silas had looked at her—like he knew her and didn’t want to. His voice had been low, threaded with something heavier than words. “You weren’t supposed to be out here.” What did that even mean? Now she lay awake in bed, the sheets twisted around her like vines. Her calf throbbed beneath the bandage—a makeshift wrap she barely remembered tying. No texts. No missed calls. No fever. Just... heat. Coiled under her skin. She blinked at the ceiling. It blinked back. No—that was the fan. Turning slow. But the sensation wouldn’t leave. Her heart was thudding like she’d run miles. Her senses felt dialed up past normal, past human. The sound of moth wings tapping the windowpane made her flinch. The scent of pine seeped under the door like it had teeth. She sat up. Her reflection in the mirror across the room shimmered—just for a second. Light playing tricks, maybe. But her eyes looked wrong. Bright. Sharp. Alive. Outside, the wind stirred again. Margot moved to the window, parting the curtains like she expected something. She didn’t expect Silas to be there. He stood at the edge of his yard, shirtless again, lit by moonlight. Not watching her house. Watching the woods behind it. Jaw tense. Hands clenched. Then, slowly, his gaze lifted—like he felt her eyes on him before she’d even moved. Their eyes met across the distance. He didn’t smile. Margot didn’t breathe. And just like that, he turned and vanished into the trees. Like the night had come to claim him. Like maybe, it would claim her too.