Page 23 of Salem’s Rise

He steers me toward a bakery next, its windows filled with cider donuts dusted in cinnamon sugar and miniature pumpkin pies. A painted sign above the awning reads GHOUL DONUTS, with one of the O’s replaced by a cartoon skull.

“Best donuts in town,” he says, reaching for the door.

“That name is terrible.”

“The donuts make up for it.”

He disappears inside, bell jingling above the entrance, followed by a rush of warm air scented with apples and sugar. I wait on the sidewalk, pretending not to be charmed by any of this.

He returns moments later carrying a paper bag and two steaming cups and hands me one.

“You didn’t have to buy me anything.”

“I know,” he says. “I wanted to.”

I look down at my drink. “What is it?”

“Harvest Cider,” he explains. “It’s basically hot apple cider with enough spices to convince tourists they’ve had a spiritual experience.”

I take a cautious sip. It’s amazing. Sweet and warm, with cinnamon, clove, and something citrusy beneath it.

“Well?” Rowan asks.

“I’m most definitely not having a spiritual experience.”

“Your face says otherwise.”

He passes me a sugary donut next, still warm from the fryer. I break it in half and take a bite even though the skeptical part of me knows that accepting baked goods from a kidnapper is probably how every cautionary tale begins.

“You know,” I say, “if you drugged this and are planning to take advantage of me again, I’m going to be offended by the lack of originality.”

“I wasn’t the one who hurt you,” he says quickly.

I’m surprised by his response. He seems almost eager to tell me, like he’s been waiting for the chance, even though he denied any involvement earlier.

I study him carefully. “Then tell me who did. Was it Van?”

Rowan says nothing.

“Silas?”

Still nothing.

Fine. One of those two assholes. Maybe both.

I’d already figured Van was the one in the leather jacket who cut me with the knife, but I’d never known who delivered the final blow that knocked me unconscious. Some stupid, irrational part of me hopes it was Van too. Because the alternative is Silas, and for some inexplicable reason I don’t entirely understand, I don’t want it to be him.

Which is ridiculous. He’s been nothing but an asshole since the first day we spoke.

And yet… he does have that face.

Fuck me. I really am an idiot for tall, dark, and gorgeous men.

“This doesn’t mean I trust you,” I say, taking another bite of Rowan’s delicious donut.

“I’d be disappointed if you did,” he says.

“Why?”