Page 28 of When Death Whispers

She’s fire wrapped in skin and I want to burn in her.

Normally, fear is what feeds me, sustains me. But what she stirs in me now has nothing to do with survival. It’s instinct. Hunger. Lust curls low in my gut and rises fast. The beast inside me stretches, fangs bared, claws twitching beneath my skin. And suddenly, I’m no longer mist and memory. I’m flesh. I’m fur. I’m full.

And my cock is hard enough to ache.

Well, well, well.

Things are getting interesting indeed.

11

The night feels heavy,like the air itself is pressing down on me. I pull my hoodie tighter as Hudson drives us to the bakery, his jeep rattling over cracked asphalt.

He got Gerald from the mechanic shop to come change both flat tires this afternoon, while I was getting ready for our shift. He refused to go home to get changed, though, so he’s still wearing my pink Florida souvenir shirt and those too-tight sweatpants.

Neither of us say much. He’s gripping the steering wheel a little too tightly, and the tension is as thick as the storm clouds still hanging low over Creek Haven.

I press my forehead to the window, watching the streetlights roll by. In the reflection, Hudson stares straight ahead, lips set, jaw locked. The white streaks in his hair catch the dim glow of the streetlights, and guilt churns in my stomach. He shouldn’t be here. Not after what happened.

But Hudson’s still here. Still driving. Still staying.

And that scares me more than anything. I was ready to pack up and leave earlier, to try and outrun my monster again and leave the peaceful town and the handsome heartthrob behind, safe and death-free. But it is now clear that there is nowhere I can run wherehewon’t find me.

And Hudson is more tangled up in this mess than I anticipated, and I have no idea why. Why him?

People who get too close tend to get hurt, or worse, die. None have ever heardhiswarnings spoken aloud and survived. What makes Hudson different? And is it because of him that his shadows are suddenly so… possessive?

By the time we pull into the bakery’s tiny parking lot under the weak glow of a flickering neon sign, I’m practically vibrating with unease. Hudson cuts the engine and glances over.

“You okay?” he asks, voice gentler than I expect.

“Fine,” I lie, fumbling with the door handle. “Just tired.”

He doesn’t push any further, but I feel his gaze lingering on me as we walk inside.

The bakery looks exactly as it did yesterday—quaint, familiar, surrounded by thick woods—but something feels… off. Like the shadows between the trees are watching. It’s never felt this... charged before. Like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff and going down whether I want to or not.

Inside, the familiar scent of flour and sugar hits me, but it doesn’t calm the tightness in my chest. Donovan is still here from supervising day shift, perched on a stool near the counter, squinting at the ledger in front of him. He glances at us as we enter, pushing his glasses up his nose.

Even with the front counter bustling with end of day patronage, it feels eerily quiet.

“You two look like hell,” he grunts, but there’s no bite to it. He’s usually a pretty serious man, more focused on the admin and logistics of running a bakery, than the actual baking side of it.

“Rough day,” Hudson replies smoothly.

Donovan hums in response, already turning back to his paperwork.

The lights hum softly overhead, steady, but something in the corner of my vision flickers. I glance over—nothing there. My pulse spikes anyway. He’s getting bold and I let my guard down too long.

Hudson notices my reaction. “What is it?” he whisper-shouts, his voice sounding as unnerved as I feel.

Donovan looks up, confused. “What’s what?”

“Nothing,” I say too quickly. “Just jumpy today.”

“Parker—”

“I’m fine,” I cut in, heading to the back for an apron before either of them can ask more questions.

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