Shirley
The storm had passed, but the air hadn’t cleared.
The next morning, I walked through the edge of the woods behind the bar, needing space from everything—Dante’s unreadable silences, Asher’s pressure, even my own skin, which felt like it was humming with something I couldn’t name. Something old. Restless.
Every step crunched through leaves damp from last night’s rain. The scent of pine and iron clung to the air. I kept replaying Dr. Myles’s words: “The mark reacts to what you feel. The more you suppress, the stronger the reaction.”
And lately, I’d felt everything.
Suddenly, a branch snapped behind me.
I spun around. Nothing. Just trees. Just wind. But the prickle down my spine wasn’t imagination.
“Who’s there?” I called out, squaring my shoulders. My hand twitched toward my
