Page 46 of In the Dark of the Past

Inside, the power surged back on with a soft electrical hum. The living room lamp blinked to life, casting warm light over our wreck of a tangle.

We froze.

For a second, we just stared at each other—breathing hard, hair wild, clothes askew. My shirt clung to me, transparent in some strategic places. His T-shirt was rucked up around his ribs, exposing a strip of tanned skin and the edge of a scar I wanted to kiss.

Finn’s eyes were dark, pupils wide but clear. Present. Not drunk on adrenaline or booze—just on us.

Reality rushed in on a wave.

What we were doing. Where we were going. Everything that still waited outside these four walls.

His phone buzzed on the coffee table, then mine on the island. The sound sliced through the moment like a blade.

He reached over to grab his cell. “It’s Linton,” he said. “I just need to deal with something real quick.”

“Anything major?” I asked.

“Nah. Just basic BS.”

“It’s fine,” I said in answer, moving to stand. “I need to see who’s texting me anyway.”

When I made it back to the kitchen, my hand shook as I picked up the phone.

Unknown number. One new message.

I tapped it open.

A photo.

My vehicle, parked at the curb in front of Finn’s house. Rain streaking across the windshield. And on the driver’s side window, painted in wet, glistening red…

The eye.

The same crude, staring symbol I’d seen on trees and trunks and buildings and grainy photos. Only this time, it was close. Personal. Violating.

The paint had already started to run, thin red threads dragging down the glass like blood diluted in water.

Underneath the photo was a single line of text.

You should have left when you had the chance.

My stomach lurched, and the air in my lungs turned to ice.

“Finn,” I breathed.

He was already up and leaning over my shoulder, his own phone forgotten in his hand. I felt rather than saw his entire body go rigid, muscles locking under my fingers where they still curled in his shirt.

When he spoke, his voice was pure, controlled ice.

“Fuck. Get your shoes.”

Adrenaline roared back like a freight train. The spell was shattered, replaced by sharp-edged focus. I hurried over and grabbed my boots from beside the door. Fingers clumsy, I jammed my feet into them without untying the laces.

Behind me, I heard the snick of his gun safe opening, the familiar metallic slide of him checking the chamber of his 9mm, the rustle of fabric as he yanked on his holster, shoved his feet into his boots, and tucked some gloves into his pocket.

The storm outside pounded against the house, rain hitting the windows so hard it sounded like gravel.

It wasn’t the only thing hunting us this morning.