"Put the leather trunks right there. Yes, on the center of the mattress."

Claire’s voice echoed down the mahogany staircase of Ashford Manor.

It had only been thirteen days since my mother’s funeral.

I huddled in the shadows of the steps, a seven-year-old ghost in my own home.

A blizzard battered the windows of Greyhaven, Massachusetts, but the real storm raged inside these walls.

My new stepmother adjusted her grip on an eight-year-old girl’s hand. Vanessa. My half-sister.

"Careful with those dresses," Claire snapped at the maid. "Vivienne had expensive taste. They’re mine now."

"Yes, ma'am," the maid murmured.

Snipping sounds caught my attention.

Another servant stood by the fireplace, dragging heavy shears across a silver-framed photograph.

"What are you doing?" I asked, my voice trembling.

"Following orders," she muttered, letting my mother's shredded face fall into the trash.

My mother, Vivienne, had jumped from the third-floor balcony less than two weeks ago. Now, she was just paper scraps.

"Leave it!" I lunged forward.

My fingers brushed against a heavy gold locket resting on the vanity.

It was a custom piece from Asia. My name, Evie, was engraved on the back.

"That's mine," I whispered, clutching the metal to my chest.

A massive hand clamped onto my shoulder.

"Drop it." My father, Richard, towered over me.

"Mommy gave this to me," I pleaded.

His palm struck my cheek with the force of a falling brick.

I hit the freezing marble floor. The locket skittered away.

"Everything in this house belongs to me now," Richard sneered, looming above me.

I didn't cry. A strange, hollow giggle escaped my lips instead.

"Look at her. Completely unhinged, just like her mother."

My grandmother stepped into the room, her pearls gleaming under the chandelier.

"She’s not crazy, Mother," Richard sighed. "Just stubborn."

"No, Richard. It’s her fault." The old woman crouched, her icy New England drawl piercing my ears.

"You know why Vivienne went mad, don't you, Evie?" she asked.

I stared at her, my jaw tight.

"You screamed every night as a baby," my grandmother whispered. "You broke her mind. You killed her."

The words buried themselves in my chest.

"Get her out of my sight," Claire demanded. "It's Vanessa's birthday. We have guests arriving."

Upstairs, the ballroom sparkled.

Champagne glasses clinked. A pianist played a lively tune for Vanessa’s eighth birthday.

I sat in the dark.

They had shoved me into a storage room off the kitchen.

A busted radiator leaked freezing water into the corner. The stench of camphor and mold choked the air.

I pulled a damp, rotting blanket over my shoulders.

My stomach cramped. A sharp, twisting pain.

I crept out of the cardboard boxes and pushed the kitchen door open.

"What are you doing out of your box?" the cook demanded, spotting me by the counter.

"I'm hungry," I said.

"Not my problem. The master said you get fed in the morning."

"Just a piece of bread," I begged.

A half-eaten slice of cake sat on a porcelain plate near the sink.

I reached out.

Fingernails dug into the back of my hand.

"Miss Vanessa hasn't finished with that," a maid hissed, yanking the plate away.

"She's upstairs. She doesn't want it," I argued.

"You don't get to decide what she wants. Back to your hole."

I retreated to the dark.

I vowed right then, shivering on the floor, that I would never celebrate a birthday.

Birthdays were just a reminder of the day my mother began to die.

Years didn't thaw the freeze in Greyhaven.

"Evie, wipe down table four!" my manager shouted over the diner's bell.

"On it," I called back.

I scrubbed the sticky formica, my blistered hands stinging under the harsh soap.

"Hey, kid, you missed a spot," a trucker grunted, pointing to a spilled coffee stain.

"Sorry, sir. Getting it now," I replied, scrubbing harder.

"You look half-dead. Don't you sleep?"

"Not much," I muttered.

I wore a faded public school uniform beneath my apron.

Just a few miles away, Vanessa strutted through the halls of an elite private academy in haute couture.

"Evie! Stop chatting and clean!" the manager yelled.

"I'm not chatting!" I shot back.

"Watch your tone, or I'll dock your pay. Shift's over. Get out of here."

He tossed a ten-dollar bill onto the counter.

I shoved the cash into my pocket and walked out into the biting winter night.

The wind howled, driving snow into my eyes.

I needed a place to warm up before the long trek back to Ashford Manor.

The high school hockey arena sat at the edge of town, its lights buzzing in the gloom.

I slipped through the side door.

The air inside was cold, but the wind couldn't reach me.

I climbed to the very last row of the bleachers and sank into the shadows.

Skates carved into the ice below.

A scrimmage was underway.

"Pass the puck, Hale! You're double-teamed!" a forward shouted, banging his stick on the ice.

I leaned forward.

Adrian Hale. The captain.

"Get out of my way," Adrian growled.

"You're gonna get yourself killed!"

"Try me."

Adrian moved like a freight train, his massive shoulders dropping as he slammed into a defender.

The impact echoed through the empty arena.

Ice chips sprayed into the air.

The defender crumpled. Adrian kept going.

"Foul!" someone yelled from the bench.

"Play through it!" the coach barked.

Adrian flicked his wrist. The puck slammed into the top corner of the net.

"Lucky shot," the goalie muttered.

"Nothing lucky about it," Adrian fired back.

He ripped his helmet off.

Sweat plastered dark hair to his forehead.

A fresh cut split his bottom lip. His right eyebrow bloomed with a purple bruise.

His jawline looked like it was carved from granite. Thick veins snaked down his heavy, muscular neck.

The hockey jersey clung tightly to his massive chest, stretching across shoulders that seemed too broad for a high schooler.

Every movement he made radiated violence and raw power.

"You've been playing angry all week, Adrian," a teammate said, gliding to a stop near him.

"Mind your business, Miller," Adrian replied.

"Just saying. You're gonna break someone's neck."

"Better theirs than mine."

He wiped a drop of blood from his mouth with the back of his glove.

His massive biceps flexed under the fabric of his jersey.

Bruises painted his knuckles. He looked like a beast let off a chain.

"Take a breather, Hale," the coach ordered.

"I'm fine," Adrian snapped.

"You're bleeding on my ice. Sit down."

Adrian didn't sit. He stopped.

He tilted his head.

He turned away from his team and faced the dark, empty stands.

His gaze drifted upward.

Past the glass. Past the lower seats.

Straight to the back row.

Straight to me.

Our eyes locked across the distance.

He didn't blink. Neither did I.

"Hale! Coach wants us in the locker room!" someone yelled.

Adrian didn't move an inch.

He just kept staring at me, his chest heaving, the blood drying on his lip.

"Who are you looking at?" the goalie asked, following Adrian's gaze.

"Nobody," Adrian replied, his voice a low rumble.

But he didn't look away.

Instead, his skates shifted on the ice.

He stepped toward the rink door, his eyes still fixed on mine.

He was coming up to the bleachers.

"Look at this one," Vanessa sneered, slapping a piece of printer paper against the metal locker door.

"Leave it alone, Vanessa," I muttered, hugging my arms across my chest.

The girls' locker room felt like a meat locker. The heating had been broken all week.

"Vivienne leaps from third floor," a girl named Chloe read aloud, tracing the ink with a manicured nail. "Tragic end for local socialite."

"I just want my gym clothes," I said.

Vanessa laughed, stepping into my space. "You don't belong here, Evie. You're a freak. Just like she was."

She shoved me hard. My spine slammed against the freezing tile wall.

"Lock her in," Vanessa ordered.

Chloe grabbed the heavy metal door and yanked it shut. The deadbolt clicked into place. Total darkness consumed the room.

I sank to the floor, pulling my knees to my chest. The cold seeped through my thin uniform shirt, settling deep into my bones.

Then, a sound broke the silence.

Sneakers crushed the scattered ice chips on the hallway floorboards.

Paper tore. Rip after violent rip.

The deadbolt snapped back. The door swung wide open.

Adrian Hale filled the frame.

He stepped inside, backing me into the corner. His massive shoulders formed a human shield, blocking Vanessa and her crew from my sight.

"What are you doing, Hale?" Vanessa demanded, her voice shrill.

Adrian dropped the shredded newspaper clippings onto the wet tiles.

"Pick someone who'll hit back," he said, his tone a dangerous, low rumble. "Or teach her how."

No one spoke. The silence stretched until Vanessa finally scoffed, grabbed Chloe’s arm, and bolted down the hall.

Adrian turned to me. He didn't offer his hand. He just waited until I stood up on my own.

We ended up at a 24-hour diner on 4th Street. The air inside smelled heavily of burnt grease and cheap coffee.

Adrian pushed a plastic basket of fries across the scratched formica table.

"Eat," he ordered.

"They're cold," I pointed out.

"Better than starving."

He slid a steaming ceramic mug toward me. Hot chocolate.

"You spent your last five dollars on this," I said, staring at the whipped cream melting on top.

"I get paid tomorrow," he replied.

He leaned back against the red vinyl booth. As he moved, his jacket collar shifted. A dark, jagged bruise peeked out from the side of his neck.

"That's not from a hockey stick," I noted.

Adrian scoffed, adjusting his collar to hide the mark. "My uncle Graham."

"He hits you?"

"He drinks. He remembers my dead mother. He swings." Adrian grabbed a cold fry and tossed it into his mouth. "Graham took the trust fund after the crash. I got the fists."

"I thought your parents died in an accident," I whispered.

"Victor Kessler ran them off the highway," Adrian corrected, his jaw clenching tight. "Everyone called it an accident. Kessler bought off the cops and walked away clean."

He stared out the window into the snowy night. Two abandoned souls, anchored to a sticky diner table.

"Come out back," I told him, sliding out of the booth.

We walked into the dark alley behind the kitchen. The freezing wind bit at my cheeks, but the brick walls offered a shield from the snow.

I pulled a small plastic bottle of antiseptic and a cotton swab from my backpack.

"Lift your chin," I instructed.

He obeyed, leaning his head back against the brick.

I dabbed the soaked cotton against the split skin on his jawline, then moved to the purple marks on his neck.

He didn't flinch. His heavy gaze stayed locked on my face.

"Does it hurt?" I asked.

Adrian tilted his head down. A reckless smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth.

"Not when you're touching it."

Three days later, a massive thunderstorm rolled over Greyhaven, knocking out the school's power grid.

Rain hammered the glass panes of the empty chemistry lab. We had slipped inside to avoid the chaotic hallways.

Adrian clicked on a heavy-duty flashlight, setting it on the teacher's desk so the beam hit the ceiling.

"Coach needs these emergency forms filled out," he said, holding a pen over a clipboard. "What's your birthday, Evie?"

The room spun.

My stomach twisted into a painful knot. The memory of my mother's shredded photograph flashed behind my eyes. The sound of the shears. My grandmother’s icy voice blaming me for the screams.

The blood drained from my face. My hands started shaking uncontrollably.

"Evie?" Adrian dropped the pen. It clattered against the floor. "Hey. Look at me."

I couldn't speak. A single tear slipped down my cheek, hot and fast.

He stepped into my space, pressing my back gently against the edge of the lab table.

He lowered his head. His lips brushed against the corner of my eye, catching the tear before it could fall any further.

The sudden warmth of his mouth sent a shockwave straight through my chest.

"I don't have a birthday," I choked out, gripping the edge of the table.

"Okay," he murmured, his breath warm against my skin. "Then we don't celebrate your birthday."

He pulled back just enough to look directly into my eyes.

"We celebrate the day you decided to stay."

The dismissal bell rang a few minutes later, echoing through the dark corridors.

We didn't go to the buses.

Adrian grabbed my hand and dragged me out the side doors into the storm.

Rain soaked through my uniform instantly. The wind whipped violently across the open football field.

We ran.

My lungs burned, but a wild, unhinged laugh tore from my throat.

Adrian stopped at the fifty-yard line. He spun around and pulled me flush against his chest.

Water dripped from his dark hair. His grip on my fingers tightened like a vice.

"When we turn eighteen," he shouted over the roaring thunder, "we leave Greyhaven."

"Where do we go?" I yelled back, wiping the rain from my eyes.

"Anywhere. We find a place where no one knows us. We build a cabin no one can kick us out of."

I stared up at him. The storm raged around us, but his face was perfectly clear.

I had finally found the light in my endless dark.

But Greyhaven never let anyone escape that easily.

The next morning, I walked into the school courtyard, ready to find Adrian by his locker.

Instead, I found two police cruisers parked aggressively by the main entrance.

And Adrian, hands cuffed behind his back, being shoved into the rear seat of a squad car.

The salt wind howled through the rusted skeleton of the shipyard.

I sprinted across the wet concrete, my sneakers splashing through puddles that mirrored the cold Massachusetts moon.

"Your parents were worthless strays!" a voice echoed from the upper catwalk.

Victor Kessler. The man who bought his way out of a double homicide.

I skidded to a halt near the metal stairs, staring up into the gloom.

Victor held a silver handgun, pointing it directly at Adrian's chest. "They played a stupid game, and they ended up in a ditch. You want to join them, boy?"

A raw, violent roar tore from Adrian's throat.

He didn't care about the weapon. He lunged forward.

His massive shoulder slammed into Victor's ribs. The gun clattered against the grated floorboards.

They crashed into the guardrail. The corroded iron groaned under their combined weight, bending outward.

"Adrian, stop!" I screamed, racing up the steps.

The metal snapped.

Victor plummeted backward into the dark.

He hit the concrete floor right in front of me.

A jagged piece of exposed steel rebar pierced the back of his skull. The sickening crunch echoed louder than the crashing waves outside.

Victor twitched once. Then, nothing.

Adrian stumbled down the remaining steps. He fell to his knees beside the body.

His hands shook violently. His chest heaved. He stared at the pooling blood, completely paralyzed.

"Evie," he whispered, his voice cracking. "He pulled a gun. I just... I pushed him."

I didn't scream. A terrifying, icy calm washed over my brain.

I stepped over the spreading crimson puddle and grabbed the handgun from the stairs. The metal felt freezing against my palm.

"Adrian, stand up," I ordered.

He didn't move. His eyes stayed glued to Victor's lifeless face.

I grabbed his collar and yanked him backward. "Look at me!"

His gaze snapped to mine. Pure panic widened his dark eyes.

"You leave right now," I told him, wiping the gun's grip with the wet sleeve of my jacket. "You drive back to campus. You don't speak to anyone."

"Are you crazy?" He grabbed my wrists, his fingers digging into my skin. "I killed him. I have to call the police."

"You have a Harvard hockey scholarship," I fired back, ripping my hands free. "You have a future. I'm a reject from a family that wishes I was dead. I have nothing."

"No. I won't let you do this."

"You don't have a choice." I pressed my own fingers firmly against the trigger and the barrel, leaving my prints everywhere. "Victor owed me money. We fought. It was self-defense. That's the story."

"Evie, stop!" He reached for the weapon again.

I shoved him hard against a rusted pillar. "If you stay, we both lose! Get out of here!"

Sirens wailed in the distance. Someone had heard the struggle.

"Go!" I shouted, pointing toward the exit.

He hesitated, his face pale, tears cutting through the grime on his cheeks.

The flashing blue lights painted the warehouse walls.

I turned my back on him and dropped the gun next to Victor's hand.

When the police swarmed the building a minute later, I was sitting alone on the bottom step, waiting for the cuffs.

The courtroom smelled like floor wax and old wood.

My orange jumpsuit scratched against my skin. The heavy chains around my ankles rattled as I shifted in the defendant's chair.

"The prosecution is offering ten years," my public defender muttered, sliding a piece of paper across the table. "Manslaughter, obstruction, perjury. You sign this plea bargain today, or we go to trial and you get twenty."

I picked up the pen.

"Evie, wait!" a voice cracked from the gallery.

I twisted around.

Adrian stood in the second row. Dark circles bruised the skin under his eyes. He smelled faintly of stale whiskey, even from a distance.

"It was me!" Adrian shouted at the judge. "She didn't do it! I pushed him!"

A man in a sharp suit—Adrian's high-priced attorney—grabbed his shoulders and slammed him back onto the wooden bench.

"Shut your mouth," the lawyer hissed, leaning into Adrian's ear. "You change your story now, you both rot in federal prison for the rest of your lives."

The judge banged his gavel. "Order! One more outburst, young man, and the bailiff will remove you."

Adrian fought against his lawyer's grip. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the railing dividing us.

Tears spilled over his lashes, tracking down his jaw. The boy who broke jaws on the ice was completely shattered.

I turned back to the table.

I signed my name on the dotted line.

Then, I looked over my shoulder one last time.

I met Adrian's bloodshot eyes.

I didn't cry. I just formed a single word with my lips.

*Go.*

The bailiffs grabbed my arms and hauled me toward the holding cell door.

Six months later, the visitor phone felt heavy against my ear.

Thick bulletproof glass separated me from the outside world.

Vanessa sat on the other side, wearing a designer trench coat. A smug, razor-sharp smile played on her lips.

"You look terrible in orange, Evie," she noted, crossing her legs.

"Why are you here, Vanessa?" I demanded.

"Just giving you an update on your boy." She tapped a manicured nail against the glass. "Adrian is a mess. The PTSD is eating him alive. He drinks until he passes out."

My stomach twisted. "Stay away from him."

"Oh, I can't do that." Vanessa laughed, a cold, hollow sound. "He needs someone to take care of him. I actually moved into your old apartment last week."

I slammed my free hand against the counter. "Don't touch him!"

"He likes when I make his coffee," she continued, completely unfazed. "He cries in his sleep, you know. Calls your name. But when he wakes up, I'm the one sitting on the edge of the bed. I'm the one holding his hand."

"You're sick."

"I'm winning." She leaned closer to the glass, her eyes gleaming with triumph. "You gave up your whole life to save him. And now, I get to keep him."

"He doesn't love you," I spat.

"He doesn't have to," she replied smoothly. "He just has to need me. I wear your old perfume. I sit on your couch. I'm building a whole new life on top of your ruins."

She hung up the phone.

The line went dead.

I watched her walk out of the visitation room, her hips swaying, leaving me trapped in a concrete box.

A guard tapped my shoulder. "Time's up. Back to your cell."

I stood up, the metal chains dragging across the floor.

Vanessa thought she had won. She thought Adrian would just forget me and become her broken little pet.

But she didn't know what Adrian was capable of when he finally sobered up.

And neither did I.