Page 60 of His to Haunt

After tossing the framed embroidery into the makeshift firepit—a rusted tire wheel that I found behind the trash bin outside—I douse it with lighter fluid, drenching this symbol of dark magic in a rage over what my life has become, mirroring the life that was my sister’s.

I extend my arm, clutching the long, gun-shaped lighter as I press the trigger with my pointer finger. The fabric catches quickly in a poof of flame as I step back.

I watch it burn. Every fiber, every splinter of wood, reduced to nails in a bed of black ash.

Feeling satisfied, I go inside and tell Mom I will return after work, pretending that all is well. Am I leaving her in danger? No, I don’t believe Zand has a reason to hurt her. Nor the so-called phantom—at least not by daylight since the thing seems to travel after sundown. Thething.The undead spirit of a vampire—ah, fuck, this cannot all bereal!

It’s like being trapped in a nightmare that makes no sense, and all you want to do is wake up if only you knew how. If only my body were not stuck in the reality that my mind rejects.

If only.

So, I go to work. After avoiding Zand all week, almost believing that I could be free of him, and seeing no way out of my current situation without bankrupting myself and Mom, I decided that at least work could be my solace. Or so I hoped.

I would have thought that the contrast of being in such a sane and sterile work environment would be a relief, and it is to a certain extent. But all day, in the back of my mind, is what awaits me back at my so-called home.

You can run, Leena. But I will find you.

I believe him.

Psychologically speaking, he has it in his thickvampireskull that I am an anecdote—no, more like a medicinal palliative—to his condition because I make himfeel.He isn’t used to feeling because he is a psychopath. The question is, which type of psychopath is he? Narcissistic, borderline, sadistic, or antisocial?

Luckily, I am allowed free time to study at will on the topic in the wonderfully appointed office library. Dr. Sherwin is pleased with my genuine interest in gaining a deeper understanding of psychopathy. Of course, she has no idea how deeply personal the topic is to me or how utterly wacka-fucking-doodle my life is.

On the drive back to Moonvine, I ponder the topic, deciding that Mr. Byron is a hybrid of all of the above, minus borderline. There is nothing borderline about him. He is a full-fledged narcissistic, sadistic, antisocial psychopath. This is the only way to explain what he did to me.

Forcing me into posing for him. Gaining my empathy. Seducing me. Torturing me. Claiming ownership over me. Threatening me.

But processing this is not the worst of my day, it seems. The worst is when I return and find Mom sitting in a chair with another embroidery, which I study suspiciously.

“It looks…thesame,” I gasp.

She scrunches her face at me. “Same thing I’ve been working on.” Now, it’s me who is the mentally challenged one.

I back away, shaking my head in disbelief. I sort of blackout. I barely remembered leaving the house as I raced through the garden before banging my fist on his door.

He opens it with a crooked smile, dressed in formal attire, wearing a black velvet dress coat with embroidered gold cuffs and a matching collar open at the top.

“Tell me how to destroy it!” I scream at him.

He shakes his head at me. “What?”

“That stupid hair art. The embroidery that your ghost-dad gave to Rachel and my mother! It’s supposed to be a freaking portal or some nonsense.”

His brows furrow. “For being non-sense, you are bent out of shape over it, hm? Well, we will have to do a ritual. But I have no time at present. I’m expected at the lodge.”

“I’m coming with you,” I say without thinking.

He cocks a skeptical brow. “Now you are talking nonsense, Leena. The coven would eat you alive if you dared step foot on its sacred soil.”

“I want to find my sister or her body or whatever is left of her. She belongs to me and Mom. Not your precious coven.”

If my vision was correct, and Leena was at this lodge, I must find a way in. Iwill.

He shuts and locks the door before taking me by the arm and leading me away.

“We’ll discuss it more later.”

“Let go of me,” I say, pulling my arm from him.

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