Page 65 of Beneath Her Skin

“Were you actually scared or just trying to get my attention?”

She gives me a half-shrug, her lips tilting into a smirk as she feigns drawing again.

I push off my stomach and sit on my knees, snatching her sketchpad from her hands. My breath catches in my throat. “Will, this is beautiful,” I breathe, unable to tear my eyes off the drawing.

She was sketching me, sifting through the pages of my book. My chin rests in my palm, a loose strand of hair dangling in front of my face. Her talent is unreal; the attention to each detail, every blemish, scar, and beauty mark from my neck to my face, did not go unnoticed. She even roughly sketched the horrendous Wendigo for another touch of realism.

“This is seriously fantastic! Your art will take you far in life, that’s for sure.”

Her pale cheeks turn rosy pink, her face lighting up with a nervous smile.

“I mean it, Will.” I look down at the drawing again, tracing my fingers over the shading. “Thank you, I love it.”

Her smile grows even bigger, brighter. I can’t help but love the way she smiles—it’s so radiant, like it could bring a field of wilted flowers back to life. If I accomplish nothing else in my life, I could still die happy knowing I did my part to keep Willow’s light from ever dimming. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.

She grabs the sketchpad and flips to a blank page, nodding at theDemonology Codex, urging me to continue reading.

A loose strand of her long, strawberry-blonde hair falls in front of her face. It hangs there teasingly, and I can’t help but reach out and tuck it behind her ear. She offers me a soft smile as she leans into my touch.

Damn. I’m absolutely obsessed with my foster sister.

The day Willow entered my life, I finally found someone who soothed the hurt I carried in my heart.

She came into my life when I was seven years old. I was with one of the many revolving door fosters that were utterly repulsive human beings. My childhood was rough, every home I moved to was shit, the adults even shittier. No one wanted to take care of the girl with “problems.”

They always sent me back into the system. They said I was “too much to handle” or “not what they signed up for.” Even at a young age, I was blunt and aggressive. Getting in fights was all I knew how to do.

I was taken away from my biological mother. I later found out she was a crack addict who prostituted herself for drug money. From what I remember, strange men always came into and out of our home. I’ve never forgotten their disgusting attitudes and demeanor. Or how they would physically abuse my mother when they didn’t get their way.

All I’ve ever known is rage and brutality. Untilher.

My strawberry sunshine. The light to my darkness.

I knew she was special since the day those foster parents brought her in. Her skin was marred with burn scars, and she held onto a tattered teddy bear tightly to her chest. I’ll never forget the fear in those big, green eyes.

To this day, I’ve never once heard her speak. I heard the foster family speak about Willow in hushed whispers one night when they thought no one was listening, calling her a freak child. “Watch out for those quiet ones,” they’d say.

That same night, I grabbed a butter knife off the kitchen counter and attempted to stab our foster parents for speaking about her that way. I regret nothing about getting us moved; I only wished I had grabbed a sharper knife.

Willow is my delicate flower. She isn’tweirdor afreak.She is pure, intelligent, so fucking talented. Her beauty is unmatched. Willow is everything bright in this world, and no one will ever hurt her.No one.

Ever since then, we’ve been inseparable. Every time I got us kicked out of a foster home, or they wanted to get rid of us because “we were too weird for them,” I would fight anyone who tried to separate us. We may not be related by blood, but that girl is my family and the only one I have left.

If it weren’t for Willow, I’d probably have ended up locked up or dead. I need her like the air I breathe, and I think, in some ways, she needs me, too. At least, I hope she does. If something ever happened to her, I’d burn the fucking world to the ground and dance in its ashes.

I finally glance down at my book and resume my reading.

“Reapers, the bringers of death, are said to be Lucifer’s most favored children. Once human, they were granted the ‘kiss of death’ in the afterlife, transforming them into his loyal servants tasked with delivering souls to Hell.”

The more I read, the more intrigued I become. My eyebrows lift as the description unfolds– voice steadily increasing in pitch as my excitement builds.

“Little is known about these mysterious beings. Some claim they appear as ordinary humans, blending seamlessly into the world of the living, while others insist they take the form of a shadowy figure cloaked in black, wielding a scythe. One thing, however, is certain: meeting a Reaper face to face is a fate you’d never wish for. To be struck by their scythe not only ends your life but also seals your soul in eternal torment within the depths of Hell.”

Willow stops drawing and gives me a pointed look. Then, tapping her pencil on the paper, she holds my stare.

I chuckle. “What? You wanna kiss death, too?”

She begins writing something on her sketchpad and turns to show it to me.

---