Page 9 of Where the Dark Things Bloom

My shoulders curled instinctively, and I slowly peeled myself from the step, feet barely making a sound as I crept toward the entrance. Before my hand reached the knob, the bell shrieked for a third time.

I opened it.

He stood there—tall, lean, dressed in black from shirt to tight jeans, a leather jacket clinging to him like it was made just for him. One hand pressed the doorbell still, and the other held awhite plastic terrarium. Inside, a snake coiled lazily under a heat lamp.

I gasped. Couldn’t help it.

His black hair fell across his face in messy strands, two stubborn locks refusing to stay pushed back, no matter how many times his fingers swiped them aside.

Whowasthis guy?

Muscles twitched subtly beneath the fabric of his sleeves as he moved forward. I’d never seen anyone like him—certainly not on my doorstep. My stomach twisted into impossible knots, and something unfamiliar flickered in my chest as his eyes met mine.

“Hi,” he said, gaze holding. “Who are you?”

I couldn’t find my voice. Just stepped back, breath thick in my throat, and turned toward the stairs.

“Dorian!” my stepmom called from the kitchen, her voice lifting as she came down the hall.

She opened her arms as she approached him, smiling wide.“Welcome.”

But his smile left his lips, fading as soon as she got close.

“Mother,” he said, closing the door behind him. “So nice of you to allow me to stay here.”

He was my stepbrother—Vivian’s son from her first marriage. They sent him away when he was twelve. Now, ten years later, he was back.

I looked at her. At the way she smiled like nothing had ever happened. And at my father too, standing in the kitchen doorway, wrapped in his navy cardigan, cigar resting in the corner of his mouth. He stared at Dorian like he was some lost heir returned from the dead.

We were all so good at pretending.

I smiled, hollow and fake, and moved back up to the middle of the staircase. My fingers curled around the plastic limbs of the doll I’d left behind.

“Lenore, darling,” Vivian called, “would you take my Dorian upstairs and show him the attic? We’ve decorated—it has a bed and all.”

“The attic?” I blinked. “But—“

“Do you want to take his place?” my father said, voice rough behind me.

I turned slowly, catching his eyes. Shook my head.

Vivian smiled and patted Dorian’s shoulder as if sealing some silent agreement. Then she turned and disappeared into the kitchen, leaving the hallway colder somehow.

“What’s with the doll?” Dorian asked, climbing the steps toward me, eyes moving to the toy in my hands.

“They don’t talk,” I muttered, standing and rolling my eyes.

He laughed under his breath. “Aren’t you a bit old to be playing with dolls?”

“Aren’t you a bit old to move back in with your mom?” I shot back, stepping up one more stair.

“I don’t have a choice,” he said quietly, trailing after me.

At the second-floor landing, I stopped and pointed toward the attic door—barely open, like it was holding its breath.

“Lock it at night,” I said. “Father doesn’t like anyone awake after dark.”

His jaw tensed. “You’re no fun,” he muttered as he brushed past me. “Sister.”

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