EDEN

When I open my eyes, I wonder how the fuck I’m still alive and where the fuck I am.

I know I’m not at my mom’s place from the ceiling alone and how comfortable the bed is.

My breathing is shaky as I try to remember the last place I’d been and why my entire body aches like I got jumped by a truckload of linebackers.

My head hurts bad enough to blur my visions.

But I still see the thin line taped to my arm. An IV.

Oh, shit.

I tug a little.

It stings enough to tell me not to try that again.

Don’t rip shit off, Eden.

My fingers twitch against the blanket. I try to sit, but the nausea kicks in fast. I barely lift my head before I collapse back down with a groan.

That’s when I hear a page flip.

I turn my head.

There’s a girl across the room. Sitting on an armchair like she lives here. She’s got bare legs, boots up to her knees, and a leather jacket draped across one side. There’s a magazine spread across her lap, some insane print that makes me blink

“Are you—” My voice is hoarse. Dry as shit. “Are you seriously reading Serial Killers Monthly?”

She glances up. Smiles. “It’s vintage. You can’t find these anymore.”

My stomach turns.

I shift in the bed. “Where the hell am I?”

She shrugs. “Alive. Surprisingly.”

That answer does nothing for me.

She tosses the magazine onto the table. It lands face-up on some bold headline that makes my chest lock up.

“How to Hunt a Schoolgirl…”

My heart thuds.

Everything slams back.

Kennedy Monroe. The porch. My keys. Running. The psycho brothers. My car in the distance. Hands. Teeth. Laughters.

Teeth. TEETHS!

I shoot upright so fast I nearly black out. My head throbs. I grab my neck, both hands scrambling. I don’t feel a wound, or blood.

Nothing.

I’m shaking. My breath is loud. The girl in the chair hasn’t moved. She’s just watching me with this smug-ass look like she’s waiting for the panic to land.

“Took you long enough,” she says, voice way too calm. “You’re the first human girl to survive my brothers’ hunt night. That’s… kind of a big deal.”

I blink at her. “What?”

She smiles like she’s proud of me for asking. “You were supposed to die. But you didn’t. Isn’t that exciting?”

Nope.

Nope. I’m not doing this.

I glance at the IV stuck in my arm. I don’t think. I just move.

“Don’t,” she says, suddenly stern. The smile on her face is gone now.

I grab it anyway.

She snarls.

I rip the damn thing out.

Blood spatters.

The pain stings hard but I don’t stop. I swing my legs off the bed. My feet hit cold wood. I stagger but force myself up, heading straight for the door.

But the girl grabs me before I even touch the knob.

She yanks me back like I weigh nothing and slams me against the wall. My head spins. Her grip crushes into my arm, and I try to shove her off, but it’s useless. I kick, elbow, claw, nothing works.

"You're not going anywhere," she growls.

I scream, panic setting in. She doesn’t even flinch.

Then the door bursts open. A blonde woman stands there with a ponytail and plain clothes. She looks like someone’s aunt, not someone meant to walk in on this.

The girl jerks her head toward her.

That’s all I need.

I drop and roll, scrambling through the open door on all fours. My elbow hits the frame hard. Pain shoots up my arm, blood dripping from where I’d ripped out the IV.

I don’t wait. I bolt.

The hallway is huge. Polished wood floors, chandeliers above, I have never been in a place like this in my entire life. I grab the wall to keep steady, leaving a red smear.

Behind me, the girl and the blonde woman start arguing.

“She pulled the IV—”

“I told you not to let her wake up without supervision!”

“Don’t blame me, Bethany! The fuck was I supposed to do? You should have sedated her—”

“She wasn’t supposed to wake up for another two hours!”

“Well, she’s up now, and bleeding all over the fucking floor.”

I keep going, gripping the wall, feet dragging. My shoulder bumps a framed painting and I barely register the sound. My vision keeps dipping and my knees are shaking, but I push.

God, please.

Please.

“Why can’t we just kill her—”

“Harley!”

“What?”

“She’s not the same.”

“She looks the same to me.”

“Harley. Enough.”

“No. You said they needed her. You never said why. And I’m not playing clean-up again without answers.”

“You know it’s not up to me.”

“Then maybe someone should explain why this one gets a bed and a nurse and a fucking IV, while the others got body bags.”

“Lower your voice.”

“You remember the girl from Portland? He thought she was her too. Because he thinks she’s a reincarnation doesn’t mean she isn’t a doppelganger like the others we killed.”

It takes a while before Bethany finally responds, “Then why don’t you bring that up to Hawkley yourself and see how long you last.”

Harley doesn’t respond.

I don’t look back. I keep going. Whatever the hell I’ve gotten dragged into, I’m not sticking around to find out what they do with the ones they don’t think are reincarnations.

I round the corner and stop so fast my shoulder hits the wall.

And he’s right there.

Hawk.

Hawkley.

He’s shirtless, barefoot, a pair of black sweatpants hanging low on his hips like he didn’t bother with the drawstring. His arms are folded, veins slithers down his forearms, and his chest rises slow like he’s either tired or bored.

Our eyes connect.

His are gray, drooping, he looks bored out of his mind.

“If you run again,” he says, “I might not get there fast enough next time.”

A beat.

“Harley’s a ripper.”

Another pause.

“She won’t stop once she starts.”