Page 10 of His to Haunt

“It’shimagain,” says Mom, making zero sense.

“Be right back,” I say, heading down with my phone ready to dial 911 in case it’s not the gardener guy with the fancy name.

It’s empty when I get to the foyer, the slamming screen door making me jump. Where the heck did the phantom voice come from?

“Hello?”

But nobody answers back.

I head up the other side of the hallway—the yet-to-be-explored side—flicking lights on as I go toward a cracked exterior door, fresh air breezing in. Thunder cracks in the distance.

“Who is it?” I say louder, looking around.

Heavy booted footsteps approach, and then a man taller than the archway of the adjoining room ducks under to meet me from the library.

My head tilts upward to look at him, my jaw slackening.

The man is the epitome of pale and interesting. Looks like he’s in his twenties, except in the eyes—he has stunningly strange old soul eyes, an unnatural color, like Aegean teal mottled by the shadow of storm clouds, framed by slabs of dark brow collapsing inward. Drawn cheekbones, his long jet-black hair looks as if it were flat-ironed. I pause on his smirking masculine mouth that seems on the verge of cruel utterances.

“Hello,” he says in a rich, dark bass voice that matches his looks. A doomful radio voice.

Who the hell is this guy?

“Zand Byron,” he says as if I asked the question allowed.

Oh, shit. The cousin. The groundskeeper. The neighbor.

Explains why he’s dressed like he came from an auto-mechanics shop. A threadbare grey tee hugs his muscled shoulders, exposing tattooed arms—Egyptian-looking—with hieroglyphics and a snake wrapping around them. Fitted, black-splotched jeans on long legs, his thumbs tucked into frayed front pockets.

“Hi,” I say, forcing a smile and pretending his strange, statuesque presence doesn’t bother me or strike me as unusual. But I’ve never been good at pretending.

“Well, at least it makes a tad more sense that you’ve come in unannounced,” I joke, trying to imply some boundaries while breaking the ice politely.

He cocks a humorless brow. “Here first.” There is a sharpness to the end of his word, annunciating the t like a tiny dart.

I nod—yeah, sure. Then, I wipe my hair back from my face. Think of something to say, Leena. Quick.

“Um, about that. I…know this arrangement will take some getting used to, but—”

“Not so long as you mind your place.”

My mouth snaps shut. This is where he cracks a smile and lets me know he’s messing with me, right?

I wait for it, but he has nothing for me but a smirk that slowly sinks into a hard line. He has a sullen, angry mouth. The man is too fucking much. Too tall, pale, edgy, fiercely cunning in the eyes, sculpted in the face—unreal-seeming in addition to being highly attractive. A wicked combination.

My cheeks flush under the awkward weight of the moment. Okay, maybe we are starting off on the wrong foot. I hold out my hand.

“So anyway, I’m Leena Sperling. Rachel’s—”

He frowns at my hand, leaving me hanging.

“I know who you are, Leena.” The tenor of his voice drops to a baritone when he says my name, reverberating inside me like a warning.

My flush deepens as I reclaim my hand, raising my posture with a cross of the arms, my smile fading. I can play this game, too.

“I’m not explaining myself, Zand. I’m being polite.”

“Whatever,” he shrugs.

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