The skies have cast a dark blanket over the town, and the temperature has dropped enough that my lips feel numb. A sharp breeze teases strands of my hair. This skinny road is nestled beneath a tower of trees on each side, their naked branches looming over me. I lift the scarf above my chin and pick up my pace toward the inn.

It’s faint at first, the whisper of warmth that brushes over the back of my neck.

When my skin starts to tingle, the heat building up behind me, I slow my steps. Just a few seconds later and I can feel it completely, the presence I’m growing more familiar with, and I come to a halt. I’m shivering slightly in the cold, itching for the coziness of my room, but I can’t seem to get my legs to take another step.

The heat behind me brushes closer until I can almost feel his body against mine. His build blocks most of the wind, and his warmth has my muscles relaxing from the frigid breeze. I want to melt into him so I can feel safe and sound, let the impossible heat he radiates relieve me of the evening’s chill. But of course that’s crazy. He’s a stranger. A ghost. A . . . I have no idea what he is, and that might be what terrifies me most.

Slowly, I turn my head. Despite knowing I can’t physically see him, I need to face him anyway. It’s killing me, moving so slowly, but I’m afraid he might disappear again before I get any answers. Or am I afraid to discover he isn’t real? I can already glimpse him from the corner of my eye, and the fact makes my breath catch in my throat. Holy freaking fiddle sticks, I can see him.

He’s taller than I thought, maybe 6’4”, with thick, slightly wild, dark brown hair. By the time I’ve unfrozen my legs and managed to turn the rest of my body around, my throat’s gone dry and I can’t take my eyes off him. With chiseled cheekbones, a prominent jaw, and nothing but taut, sculpted muscles beneath his fitted black T-shirt . . . he is all man. How he is not freezing in nothing but a T-shirt and jeans is beyond me. My gaze lazily wanders back up to his face. I swear my heart stops when I look right into his eyes, and I hear my own gasp.

Dark pools of grey and black fill the irises.

I’ve seen those eyes before. Except this time, there’s no hint of the green I’d glimpsed then. No hint of color at all. Only darkness.

He stares downward, watching me just as intently as I’m watching him—perhaps even more so. His eyes are impossibly hard, a mixture of ice and steel, and I don’t see how the hands that touched me so delicately before could belong to the same person.

At 5’8”, every bit of a size seven in women’s clothing, and with an athletic frame formed from twelve years of volleyball, I’ve never been considered a petite or fragile girl. But right now, standing beside his imposing build, I certainly feel like I’m both of those things.

I squint, trying to focus, but the outline of his frame begins to blur. Am I seeing this right? The edges of his shoulders, his hair, they’re wavering, blending in with the shadows of the night. His eyes narrow as he watches me, then his gaze follows my own. The moment he notices his flickering form, his face twists into something fierce and, before I realize what’s happening, he’s gripping my arms and shoving me backward. Just when I think my back’s about to slam into a tree, he controls his movements enough to gentle the impact into something I hardly notice at all.

I’m sandwiched between the sturdy frame of his body and the tree, with his arms on either side of me, blocking me in. My breaths are ragged, and my cheeks are burning hot with the adrenaline coursing through me. He’s both tall and broad enough that the only thing in my line of sight is his chest.

The heavy, uneven sound of his breathing is coming from above my head. It quiets, like he’s struggling to get it under control, and he doesn’t move a muscle for what feels like an eternity. With his hands planted on the tree, he backs away from me, breaking contact between our clothes yet still close enough to feel his warmth, his invisible grip on me.

When I look up, my eyes skimming his shoulders and hair, he’s not blending in with the background anymore. Just like the night of my accident, I find myself wondering . . . is he solid enough to touch?

Without thinking, I reach up and graze his wide shoulders, just above his collarbone. My fingers tremble against him. His body heat seeps through the fabric of his shirt like it’s not even there, zipping through my fingertips and down my chest, until it warms the pit of my stomach like bourbon. Something white and rough on his skin catches my eye, poking out about half an inch from the top edge of his T-shirt. A scar. It looks so much like mine, reminding me of the other night, when he touched it. Touched me. It’s just below his collarbone, and I lightly run my thumb across it.

His entire body stiffens, from his shoulders to his legs, and his Adam’s apple bobs once in his throat.

It’s not much, but it’s the first real sign of vulnerability I’ve seen.

My hands look so small and delicate on him. I realize I’m lingering a little longer than I’d intended, and I snap my fingers away. Eventually, I look back up into those steel eyes.

“Who . . . what are you?” I whisper.

He doesn’t speak for a long while, and I wonder if he even can. He’s never said a word to me before. Then again, I’ve never spoken to him until now either.

“I think you know.” His voice is a low, quiet hum, but there’s a rough, husky tone to it that leisurely travels down my spine.

I think I do, too, but it doesn’t make sense. “I saw you . . . that night in the lake.”

He says nothing, his eyes roaming over my face, but I know I’m right. It is him.

“Are you an . . .” I want to say angel, it’s at the tip of my tongue, but something about his eyes stops me. So cold. Empty.

As though reading my mind, he gives a small, steady shake of his head. “I’m no angel.”

The way he says it, deep and slow . . . the hints of truth tinged with darkness behind his voice, it makes my breath shake. He’s so quiet I can’t tell if he’s even breathing, but I can see the clench of his jaw, the tightening of his muscles rippling from his arms to the defined lines of his stomach.

An angel he certainly is not. I can’t say where it comes from, but somehow, I know. I know what he is.

“Death.” The word floats out of my mouth like a puff of air, drifting in the wind so softly I hardly hear it.

A quiver runs through the tightness of his chest as he watches me take it in, his heavy silence speaking louder than anything words could say. I’m trying to get my voice to work so I can ask what it means, what he wants from me, when the hard outlines of his body fade. This time, he drops his arms from either side of me.

That’s all it takes for the icy wind to return, hitting my skin like daggers and serving as a harsh reminder of where I am. I start to reach out to him, not sure why I’m missing his warmth, his touch, only that I am. He takes a step back, leaving me shivering.

The more he distances himself, the more he seems to fade. Until, suddenly, he’s gone.

It burns. It cuts. Like fangs, it bites into these wrists that are not mine.

But still, my hands tug relentlessly against the rope that binds them, yanking and writhing until warm blood trickles down my fingers.

The screams, they won’t stop. The tortured sounds pierce through the hall, up the stairs, and into the shadows of this pitch-black closet, straight into my ears. Fear and rage consume me until any other sense of emotion runs numb. The fear is for little Tommy, but the rage . . . oh, the rage is for the monster.

Rip.

My hands break free. I don’t stop to look at the bloody mess they’ve become; I can’t even feel the pain anymore. I tear at the rope tying my ankles together then slam my body against the door, knocking it open on the second hit.

It’s easy to follow the screams, even though they’ve become more like whimpers now. They lead me to the kitchen, where the monster has little Tommy tied to a chair, arms bound behind him, head hanging low. Even though Tommy’s almost ten years old now, he looks so much smaller like this. Too small.

The monster has a knife. It’s pressed against Tommy’s right arm, slicing a shallow line through his skin. It’s not the first cut tonight, either. Fresh slices line his left arm. Blood, red, so red, slides down his arms, drip drip, and onto the ground.

I don’t pause to think before I reach down to untuck the pocket knife from my right boot. It’s not there. Goddammit. The fucker must have snagged it after knocking me out earlier. I take advantage of being unnoticed as I scan the room, searching for a substitute weapon, and contemplate the most efficient form of attack.

“What’s the problem?” the monster sneers, grabbing ahold of Tommy’s brown hair and yanking it back until their eyes are forced to lock. “Thought you’d like this. Ain’t you boys attention whores like your mom?” He shoves Tommy’s head before releasing it, then smirks. “Guess you can’t help it, huh? It’s in your DNA, built in from the smug Italian blood she gave you. Wonder what she’s gonna think of your new tattoos.”

A fiery heat blazes behind my eyes at the sight. It boils and burns, flames coursing down my throat, past my chest, until scorching fire fuels every inch of me.

He. Will. Burn. For. This.

And I won’t wait for the Devil to make sure of it.

Body shaking, I gasp for air. Confusing images flood my mind, dreams clashing with reality, drowning me to the point I can’t breathe. My hands claw at my throat.

Blood . . . red, red, so much red. The bathroom tiles, they swim in it. Dad. His body, so limp, so lifeless. The gun, it still touches his partially curled fingers. His heart, it’s bleeding. Really bleeding, just like he always said it was. Those nights I’d find him shivering, when he’d stir and cry out in his sleep. He always said his heart had been cut open. He always said it bled raw without her. And now, right before my eyes, it did.

Daddy, no! My eight-year-old self couldn’t comprehend it then, and my twenty-two-year-old self can’t comprehend it now. What did you do? What have you done, Daddy? Please, don’t leave me. Please, come back for me . . .

But he doesn’t answer.

Of course he doesn’t.

Because he’s drowning in red.