3. Camryn

THREE

CAMRYN

Tapping the pen on my notebook, I stare out the window at the setting sun.

Dominic begrudgingly drove me home after school and didn't speak a single word the entire journey.

Now, as I watch the trees sway in the breeze, the sound of his electric guitar drifts through the walls. I can't focus on my homework. Not because of his strumming. Something about those trees calls to me.

My curtains dance as another gentle gust brings with it the scent of pine and rotting wood.

A headache blooms behind my eyes, and the words blur in and out of focus. Putting the pen down, I squeeze the bridge of my nose and rise to my feet, the chair scraping against the wooden floor. I walk up to the window, kneeling on the window seat and pressing my face against the glass. Beside me, the curtain billows, bringing the sound of…whispers?

My breath fogs the glass as I strain to listen. When Dominic strums his guitar again, my eyes fall shut with frustration. But then the music fades into silence, and the whispers come again, urging me to lean closer to the glass and peer beyond the trees.

"Camryn."

I tumble backward with a gasp, landing hard on the floor as my heart thumps. Inhaling shaky breaths, I feel my pounding headache intensify behind my temple.

Wincing, I press my palm to my forehead before rising to my feet and steadying myself on the desk. Fuck this. I need to get out of this house. I need fresh air.

After entering the hallway, I glance at Dominic's bedroom. His door is open, and I catch sight of his long legs on the bed, crossed at the ankles. Hurrying down the stairs, I put on my shoes and leave the house. It's late afternoon, but the heat still slams into me as I step outside, though it's not quite as stifling as earlier.

Rounding the side of the house, I let my hand drift over the rough bricks while the tall grass tickles my bare ankles. A bumble bee flies tirelessly from wildflower to wildflower, and crickets chirp somewhere in the thicket of the overgrown yard.

I turn the corner and make a beeline for the forest, called forward by something inside me. Something that responds to the whispers in the afternoon breeze.

Whispers that call my name.

My damp neck pricks with awareness as I draw to a halt, turning slowly to look up at the window.

Dominic, shirtless and with that dog tag hanging around his chest, gazes down at me with an intense, unreadable expression.

One that sees through me.

I clench my hands to hide the slight tremor and start to turn back around, but I pause when I see a different figure.

A figure that peers down from my bedroom window: a stern-looking older woman dressed in all black, with a severe bun and pale, gaunt cheeks.

Ice slithers through my veins even as a bead of sweat trails down my spine. I blink, and the woman is gone.

"What the…?" I stiffen.

Dominic is still watching me intently, his eyes never wavering as they strip me bare.

My own window remains empty.

Behind me, the trees rustle when their branches move in a vagrant breeze?—

A sudden insect bite stings my bare arm, and I slap my hand over it, but it's already gone.

"Fuck," I whisper as I turn around to enter the woods. I scratch my skin, making the red welt worse by dragging my dirty nails over it. Let's face it—it feels fucking good.

Greeted by the mustiness of moss and the earthy scent of pine and rotten bark, I venture deeper, noting the temperature drop in the air.

A sudden chill causes me to shiver. Despite the summer heat, I shudder, dragging my hands over my arms to rub some warmth back into me.

It doesn't work.

Twigs break underfoot as the trees groan and sway in the wind, seeming to sing a haunting tune. I don't know what possesses me to keep walking, but a calling from deep within, an urge I can't place, pulls me forward.

"Camryn," the whisper comes again, and I stumble to a halt, snapping my head from left to right to locate the voice. Silence settles over the forest once more like a swirling mist that suffocates everything in its path.

"Camryn." Again, much louder. This time, from right behind me.

With my heart in my throat, I spin around so fast, my hair whips me in the face. Spindly trees reach up toward the sky, their twisted branches creating ominous shadows on the ground. Nearby, a thicket of blueberry bushes bristles with dark, glistening fruit, their sweet scent mingling with the damp earth and decaying pinecones.

A crow lets out a loud caw somewhere in the distance. My breath catches, but then something else snags my attention—a repetitive thud or a whack up ahead.

I set off toward the noise, frowning as I move branches out of the way while stepping over fallen logs. Once I reach a clearing, I take cover behind a tree.

A young man, not much older than me, places a piece of wood on a log. His red flannel shirt is unbuttoned to reveal his tanned chest, and his brown hair falls over his brow.

He's unaware of my presence as he wipes the glistening sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. I can't look away from the bulging muscles in his arms or how he picks up the axe leaning against the trunk.

Brow furrowed with concentration, he raises it in the air and brings it down on the log to split it in half. A gasp leaves my lips, and he stills, as if the sound carried through the trees. His eyes fly up to mine, where I peer around the trunk, and he places the axe back down and takes a step toward me.

Panic floods my body.

Panic because I've been caught spying.

Without a second thought, I turn and run.

Branches scratch my skin and slap me in the face. I barely notice. All the while, the forest whispers all around me, whispers which soon turn into shouts and cackles.

Whispers that taunt and reach for me like limbs with claws, and gnarly, old fingers with torn, yellowed nails. They pull at my clothes and tangle in my hair.

It won't stop itching. I'm slowly going insane. I dig my nails into the angry, red bite on my arm, and then, scratching almost furiously, I wince. Fuck, it won't stop itching.

"Are you alright, sweetheart?" Mom asks as she places my plate full of steaming rice and butter chicken in front of me.

"I'm fine," I reply, looking across the table at Dominic, who pulls out his chair and sits down.

Mom plates his food next before joining us with her own. Pouring herself a glass of water, she smiles encouragingly. "Who wants to tell me about their day? Camryn? Dominic? Did you make any friends?"

Dominic shovels food into his mouth, and images of seeing him around the college on our first day, surrounded by curious women, leave a sour taste in my mouth.

He just has to exist to be popular. Everything comes easy.

I thought that maybe, just maybe, it would be different once we left the city. But no.

I glare at him while scratching my arm. He smirks, but then his gaze falls to my arm, and he pauses with the loaded fork halfway to his mouth. I look down and stiffen when I see the smeared blood under my nails and between my fingers.

Mom is oblivious, cutting her chicken. "Did you make any friends, Camryn?"

Ignoring Dominic's rage-filled gaze, I hide my arm beneath the table, wiping my bloodied nails on my jeans before reaching for my fork and stabbing a piece of chicken. "Gwen, who showed me around school, introduced me to her friends."

Mom's face lights up. "That's fantastic news."

I suppress the urge to wince, hating how defective her excitement makes me feel. I know she worried about me back home, hoping and wishing I'd make friends, and sometimes, that worry was worse than being alone.

I'm fine alone. I'm used to it. I've never felt like I belong.

The only times I struggle are when Dominic has his friends over, and I can hear them laughing through the walls, or when he throws a party, and I have to hide in my room. In those moments, I sometimes wish I felt a sense of belonging.

My arm stings, and my appetite is gone.

Oblivious to the tension in the room, Mom keeps talking, the sound of her cutlery scraping against the plate.

Dominic's glare intensifies until I can't take it anymore and meet his stare head-on, caught in those dark eyes that make my mouth go dry. I hate how my body responds to that glare. Hate how it makes me want to squirm beneath the heat in those voids. These feelings are wrong for so many reasons.

Sometimes, I can't decide if he wants to skin me alive or devour me whole. Possibly both.

No one looks at me like Dominic. No one makes me feel so invisible yet seen all at once.

"How was your day, Dominic?" Mom asks him, breaking our stare-off or, more accurately, mine. Dominic still doesn't look away, and my cheeks heat the longer he keeps his burning attention on me.

His response comes as an affirmative grunt, and Mom lets it go, offering us both a gentle smile.

After dinner, I help Mom wash up while listening to her talk about her day, but my thoughts are elsewhere as I stare out the window behind the sink.

The soapy water is too hot, turning my skin pink, and bubbles stick to my arm when I place another plate on the rack.

My hand plunges back into the scalding water, and I furiously scrub another plate. "Mom, have you met Wilfred Miller yet?"

"Wilfred, who owns the farm next door?" she replies, wiping the table behind me.

"Yes."

"No, not yet. Why do you ask?"

As I place the plate on the dish rack, soapy bubbles slide down the porcelain. I glance back out the window at the tall oak tree that sways gently. "I saw someone in the forest today. A young man."

"Oh?"

"He was chopping wood. I wondered if Wilfred had a son or a grandson, maybe?"

"Most likely." She hesitates. "We should say hi to the neighbors, right? It's the polite thing to do."

We are from the city, where no one speaks to their neighbors, but things are different here.

"Right?" she asks as she comes up beside me to shake bits of stray rice off the dishcloth. She rinses it clean, then places it over the faucet. "I'll knock on their door tomorrow."

"Don't forget the gift basket," I tease, making her laugh on her way out of the room.

I finish the dishes, wipe my hands on the towel, and look back at the woods. The sun has almost set, and the shadows grow longer as the branches tremble in the evening breeze. It could be a beautiful view—in fact, it is beautiful—but something about this place gives me the creeps.

A hand wraps around my elbow and spins me around. I gasp, caught in Dominic's stormy eyes.

"What the hell is this?" he all but growls as he yanks me closer to inspect the bite on my arm.

His thumb swipes over the dried, smeared blood and red skin in a deceptively tender touch that sets me on edge more than the hardened glint in his eyes.

Dominic doesn't have a kind bone in his body. Faced with a choice, he would pick violence every day, no questions asked. So, to see him glare at me with such intensity sends my heart sprinting down a hill to escape the fire in his eyes.

"It's just a bug bite," I reply, then yelp when he grabs me by the throat in a ruthless grip.

He leans in close and bares his teeth. "What were you doing out in the woods by yourself? You could get lost. We're not in the city anymore, Camryn."

I open my mouth to reply, but startle when the kitchen door slams shut so forcefully that a picture on the wall crashes to the floor. Dominic stiffens and looks behind him, his thumb stroking my throat. I don't even think he was aware of the action, but then the moment passes, and he levels those dark eyes on mine.

All oxygen seems to get sucked out of the room when he's this close.

Close enough that I can feel his heat through his clothes. Every ridge of his muscles.

I can't look away, my pulse thundering beneath his fingers. He has always disliked me, but the sheer force of his ire dampens my palms as I clutch his T-shirt. It's on the tip of my tongue to provoke him to see how far that darkness runs. My fear begs me to try, but I don't have a death wish, so I remain silent.

Door forgotten, he tightens his grip, and my heart takes off at a gallop. I tug on his T-shirt, creasing the soft fabric. His heart thunders beneath my hands. Just when I think he's going to kiss me or kill me, he steps away. "Don't go walking in the woods by yourself."

"Is that concern I hear?" I bite out as he turns to leave. "You never talk to me, so why start caring now?"

Instead of replying, he walks up to the door and crouches to pick up the broken frame, his T-shirt stretching tight across his shoulders as the muscles shift in his broad back. Not that I'm checking him out. Okay, so maybe I am. Sue me. He is attractive, even though he is an asshole.

As the seconds tick by, I frown.

What is he studying so intently?

Intrigued, I step closer. "Dominic? Everything okay?"

At the sound of my voice, his shoulders touch his ears, but then he relaxes and continues collecting the pieces of glass. I lower myself beside him, careful not to kneel on pieces of shards, and we clean up in silence.

Dominic cuts himself, hissing under his breath, a bead of red sliding down his finger before he sucks it clean. I try not to be too obvious when I gaze at his lips.

"Careful," he warns, but it's already too late.

A sudden sharp sting makes me suck in a breath, and I look down to see a jagged piece of glass embedded in my finger. "Fuck."

Dominic snatches my wrist, holding my hand steady as he removes the piece before wrapping his warm lips around my finger. A spark of liquid desire shoots to my core at the heated look in his eyes. I'm entrapped, held hostage by that possessive stare.

He trails his warm tongue over my finger, then drops my hand and rises to his full height. I peer up at him, still on my knees, at eye level with his crotch, and now it's all I can focus on. When he continues gazing down at me, I try hard not to peek at the bulge, but it's right there.

Tense seconds tick by.

I'm parched.

There's a pulsating sensation between my legs—a sensation that becomes more difficult to ignore the longer his eyes stay locked on mine.

Then, like he's pulled out of a daze, Dominic steps around me and walks away. I inhale a ragged breath, unsure if I'm relieved or not. His effect on me is terrifying. I shouldn't be this flustered.

My attention lands on the photograph on the floor, and I pick it up, then slowly rise to my feet.

The older woman in the photo is the same woman I saw in the window, but that can't be right.

Frowning, I take a seat on a kitchen chair, scanning the picture in the hopes of finding a date stamp in the corner, but there's nothing. The woman's dead eyes seem to see through me, and I fight a shiver as I place the picture back down.

I must have imagined the whole thing, right? This can't be the same woman I saw in the window. We've not had visitors yet.

Picking the card back up, I run a finger along the worn edge. The woman looks just as severe as that time when she gazed down at me, half hidden behind the curtains. Her cold eyes are just as cruel.

I turn the card over and pause.

Psalm 106:37

They sacrificed their sons and their daughters to the demons;