Page 1 of Ashen Souls

1

♫ AMY STROUP—IN THE SHADOWS

The ceramic coffee mug slipped from my numb fingers, shattering against the slanted floorboards of my kitchen.

My hand flew to my chest, my fingers digging into the thin cotton of my shirt.

That’s how my twenty-second birthday kicked off: a sudden yank behind my ribs, waking something ugly and old inside me. For years, I’d been blending into the rainy background of Vesbridge, blaming that hollow ache on plain old boredom. A lack of ambition, maybe. But the truth was bleeding through. The hunger I carried wasn’t just a void—it was a leash. And whatever stood on the other side of it was done waiting.

To everyone else, I was just white noise, perfectly content to go unnoticed.

Harper, however, treated me less like a person and more like a dilapidated house she was determined to flip.

Be ready by nine, her text had read. And wear something that says you haven’t given up on life.

Refusing your best friend on a random Tuesday was one thing; refusing her on your birthday was a crime she wouldn’t forgive.

I tugged the black dress over my hips, the damp air of my lopsided apartment making the chestnut waves of my hair stick to the nape of my neck. The pipes knocked behind the plaster. I smoothed the fabric down, trying to ignore the disconnect—that creeping, persistent sensation that I was wearing someone else’s skin.

I pushed the thought down, grabbed my leather jacket, and left before I could talk myself into staying home.

The walk to the bar took me through the old quarter. Born and raised in Vesbridge, beneath its gray skies and gothic spires, I knew these streets by the smell of wet stone and car exhaust. A light drizzle slicked the cobblestones, catching the amber glow of the streetlamps in oily streaks. A low hum vibrated beneath the pavement, something I couldn’t quite name. As if the city were always paying attention, holding its breath, waiting for the right moment to shift.

The bar Harper had chosen was dim, loud, and packed with bodies pressed wall-to-wall. Music thrummed through the floor and up through the soles of my boots. The air was thick with body heat and spilled liquor.

Harper was already halfway through her first drink when I found her.

“There she is,” she declared, looping an arm around my shoulders. “Vesbridge’s most tragic romantic, actively refusing to romance.”

“I’m not refusing,” I said, leaning in close so she could hear me over the thumping bass. “I just refuse to settle for aggressively mediocre.”

She snorted, the scent of gin and lime clinging to her breath. “You have a death wish, Aves. Let’s review your history, shall we? You only ever pick the broken ones. The ones who treat chaos like an art form and leave you to sweep up the glass.”

“They weren’t bad,” I muttered, taking the drink she pushed into my hand. “Just . . . complicated.”

“They were strategically designed to ruin your life,” Harper shot back. “And yet you have expectations no living man could survive.”

“False. Living men just lack imagination.”

We drank. We shouted over the music until my throat went raw. She dragged me onto the dance floor, but my body remained stubbornly out of sync. After a few songs, I retreated to the bar, nursing a lukewarm gin and tonic and letting the crowd blur into a single, pulsing mass.

A guy had been watching me from across the room for the better part of an hour. He was tall and objectively handsome, wearing a tailored button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He looked like the kind of man who owned a savings account and treated waiters with respect.

He walked over, offering a hesitant smile. “Can I buy you a drink? Or are you just guarding this section of the bar?”

“Sure,” I said. Because I was supposed to be celebrating. Because I was trying.

We talked. He asked about my literature degree—which was really just an expensive way of admitting I read until my eyes blurred and spent too much on coffee I couldn’t afford—and he actually listened to the answer. He told me about his promotion, laughed in all the right places, and absently stroked his thumb over my forearm. I played my part, nodding and smiling, testing the weight of his hand. I tried to force myself to want it there.

When he leaned in, he paused, giving me every opportunity to step back.

The kiss was fine. Warm, respectful, tasting of good bourbon. His hands settled on my waist with practiced care. I closed my eyes and waited for the rush. But the ache only widened.

I pulled back first.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I just⁠—”

He let his hands drop with an understanding smile. “Hey, no worries. The chemistry is either there or it isn’t.”