The night air was colder than it had any right to be. It clung to Eve's skin, seeping through her sweater, raising goosebumps along her arms. She pulled the fabric tighter around herself as she stepped off the back porch and into the grass, her bare feet damp with dew. She hadn't meant to come outside. She'd told herself a hundred times since sundown that she wouldn't. That she would ignore the pull that had been dragging at her chest all day, the invisible string wound around her ribs, tugging steadily toward the trees.
But ignoring it had become impossible. The tug had grown more insistent as the sun sank, quickening with the dark, until her breaths came shallow and restless. By the time the moon crested the horizon, she felt half-mad with the need to move, to follow, to give in.
So she had.
The woods loomed ahead, a black wall of pine and shadow. Normally, she avoided them at night. Too many stories whispered through the town—hunters who vanished, strange sounds, things better left alone. But tonight, her fear bent beneath something stronger. Curiosity? No. Not curiosity. Compulsion.
She stepped onto the first line of underbrush, twigs snapping under her soles. The forest seemed to breathe around her, its scents sharp and damp: pine resin, wet soil, the faint musk of leaves. Each inhalation filled her chest too deeply, as though her lungs had expanded. The night was alive with rustles and whispers—an owl's distant hoot, the scuttle of small creatures, the creak of branches swaying. And beneath it all, faint but unmistakable, came something more. A sound, low and measured, threading through the silence.
Voices.
Eve froze, straining to listen.
At first she thought she'd imagined them. But the longer she stood there, the clearer they became—male voices, rough and low, the kind that carried authority even in whispers. They were close, too close. Her pulse jumped, and she ducked behind a tree, pressing herself to the bark.
"…shouldn't have brought her back," one voice said. Calm, even, but edged with disapproval.
"She would've died otherwise." The second voice was deeper, harsher, carrying a weight that made her stomach twist.
Eve's breath caught. They were talking about her.
Her nails dug into the bark. Fear flared hot, chasing away the cold. Someone had found her after the accident. Someone had carried her home. Her heart pounded as fragments of memory surged—the warmth, the silver eyes, the sensation of being lifted, cradled. Not a dream. Not a hallucination. Real.
She edged closer, her bare feet silent on the pine needles. Through the trees, moonlight spilled into a clearing. Two men stood there, shadows cut sharp against silver light.
The taller one commanded her attention first. Broad shoulders, a frame too large to be ordinary, dark hair catching the moon. His stance radiated power, tension coiled tight, as though every muscle fought to remain still. His head tilted toward the other man, but his gaze flicked constantly toward the shadows, sharp and restless.
The other was leaner, lighter-haired, his expression more open, though his voice carried the same authority.
"She's human," the lighter-haired one said. "This bond—this curse—it shouldn't be possible."
Bond. Curse. The words twisted in her chest, foreign and terrifying.
The taller man gave a sound, half-growl, half-breath. "I didn't choose this. Fate did. And I'll be damned before I let it control me."
Eve's blood turned cold. She stumbled back a step, twig snapping underfoot. The sound cracked like gunfire in the stillness.
Both heads whipped toward her.
Panic seized her, but anger rose with it, burning through the fear. Enough. She'd been dragged along since the accident—dragged by confusion, by fragments, by some unseen force binding her. But now, hearing them speak of her like a problem to be solved, a curse to be resented—it snapped something inside her.
She shoved past the last line of trees and into the clearing. "What the hell is going on?"
The words ripped from her throat, sharper than she expected, trembling with fury.
The two men froze. The lighter-haired one's eyes widened, a flicker of alarm crossing his face. But it was the taller one—the one whose presence seemed to fill the clearing—who held her captive.
Silver eyes met hers.
Her breath caught. They were the same eyes that had haunted her since the crash, the ones that burned behind her lids whenever she closed them. Alive now, blazing with an intensity that stole the air from her lungs.
"You," she whispered.
The taller man stiffened, every line of his body taut. His gaze locked onto her, unblinking, as though the world had narrowed to the space between them.
"Eve." The lighter-haired one—Rowan, her mind supplied, though she didn't know how—took a careful step forward, palms slightly raised. "You shouldn't be here."
She snapped her glare toward him. "You're damn right I shouldn't. But I am. And you're going to explain why I woke up in my bed instead of a hospital, why my injuries are practically gone, and why—" She faltered, heat rushing to her face. "Why you were talking about me like I'm some… curse."
Rowan opened his mouth, but Kaelen—because somehow she knew that was the taller man's name—let out a low, guttural sound that froze them both.
It wasn't entirely human.
Eve's stomach dropped. His shoulders shook as though restraining something violent beneath his skin. His silver eyes glowed brighter, too bright, and his lips curled back, revealing the edge of teeth too sharp.
Rowan moved quickly, stepping between them. "Kaelen. Control it."
But Kaelen's gaze burned over Rowan's shoulder, pinned to Eve like a predator on prey. His chest rose and fell with ragged breaths, his hands flexing at his sides as though claws ached to break free.
Eve stumbled back, terror slicing through her anger. Every instinct screamed to run, but her body refused. She couldn't break eye contact, couldn't breathe. Something in his stare held her fast, not just fear—something deeper, hotter, frighteningly magnetic.
Kaelen's growl deepened, reverberating through the clearing. His whole frame trembled, torn between restraint and the wildness clawing beneath his skin. The air thickened, charged, as though the forest itself held its breath.
Rowan grabbed Kaelen's shoulder. "Not here. Not like this." His tone was sharp, commanding, but laced with desperation.
For a moment, Kaelen didn't move. His eyes blazed, his jaw clenched, every muscle strained to breaking. Then, with a shuddering breath, he wrenched his gaze from her and turned away, shoulders heaving.
The tension snapped. Eve gasped, dragging air into her starved lungs. Her knees nearly buckled, but fury surged up again, hot and defiant.
"What are you?" she demanded, voice shaking but loud in the silence.
Neither man answered. Rowan's expression was tight with caution, Kaelen's back a rigid wall of denial.
Her chest heaved, her heart racing wild. "Stay the hell away from me," she spat, the words torn between anger and fear.
And then she turned and ran.
Branches whipped against her arms as she plunged back into the trees, feet pounding the earth. The forest blurred around her, silver and shadow, her breath harsh in her ears. She didn't stop, didn't dare look back, though she swore she felt those silver eyes on her even as distance grew.
Only when her porch light came into view did she finally slow, chest burning, legs trembling. She slammed the door behind her, heart rattling against her ribs, every nerve still alive with the memory of him.
Safe in her kitchen, she pressed trembling hands to the counter and forced herself to breathe. But no matter how she tried to steady herself, the echo of his gaze lingered, seared into her bones.
And the pull in her chest, instead of fading, had only grown stronger.