Page 16 of Where the Dark Things Bloom

“Do I have a choice?” I said, kneeling in front of him.

He turned toward me, his eyes shadowed, his skin smudged with ash. Even then, covered in pain and soot, he was still beautiful.

He was drinking. The glass was still half full. The firelight shimmered in the whiskey like it was alive.

He sat up, looking at me.“See anything you like,sister?”

I scanned him, from top to bottom. His arms were tattoed with meaningless tattoos, but somehow, they told a story. A full sleeve, reaching up to a snake that coiled around his neck, its tongue flicking at his collarbone like it was alive.

I swallowed hard, dragging my eyes back up to meet his.

“No,” I said, clearing my throat.”And I’m not your sister.”

He rolled his eyes, a low chuckle rumbling from his throat. “Step-sister,” he said, lifting a brow, his smirk turning cold. It crawled over my skin like frost.

His gaze dropped to the edge of my nightdress; white, vintage, too big for me by two sizes. It drowned my shape. Compared to him, in his sharp clothes and sharper presence, I felt like a ghostwearing someone else’s past. But that dress was all I had left of my Mom, and sometimes, I needed to feel close to something that wasn’t already gone.

I turned to leave, not trusting myself to speak. But I barely shifted when his voice snapped behind me.

“Sit down.”

I tilted my head, smiling without warmth. “Why would I?”

I stepped closer, turning fully to face him.

“We can play a game,” he said.

“What game would that be, huh?” I crossed my arms, already bracing.

“Memory Lane,” he replied, sipping slowly from his glass. “You know, so I can really get to know mylittlestep-sister.”

I hesitated, then lowered myself onto the couch. “Alright. How do you play?”

He leaned forward. “Simple. I name a memory—say, first kiss—and you tell the story. Or maybe your first time…” His eyes narrowed, watching me too closely.

I bit down on my lip, a lump rising in my throat. “I haven’t... I never kissed anyone.”

His laugh was loud, disbelieving. “You’re joking, right?”

“No.” I stood abruptly. “I don’t.”

“Sit down,” he said, gripping my wrist and tugging me back.

I shook him off. “What’s the point of your game if I’ve never done the things you want to hear about?”

“Fine,” he said, voice dropping. “Then let’s just talk.”

I sighed, eyeing his drink. “Can I have a glass?”

He moved it out of reach, meeting my eyes. “You’re sixteen.”

I rolled my eyes. “Whatever.”

“So,” he began, slow now, “what are you most afraid of?”

I blinked. That wasn’t a casual question. Not a get-to-know-you question. The way he asked it… it was like he already knew the answer.

“I don’t know,” I muttered.

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