Page 37 of Summertime Hexy
Listening.
And there it is, soft, barely audible through the wood.
Her heartbeat.
Steady. Strong. A little too fast.
I shouldn’t be able to hear it from this far. Not unless I’m tuned into her. Not unless I’mlisteningfor her.
But I am.
And I hate myself for it.
Because I can still feel her in my hands. Still hear the way she gasped against my mouth like I cracked something open she didn’t know was locked.
She should hate me.
Iran.
Coward.
I clench my fists, pressing my forehead against the doorframe like maybe the wood can knock some sense back into me.
She’s just a girl.
Just a witch with sharp edges and messy hair and a laugh that lives under my skin.
I step back.
Turn.
But I don’t walk away.
I sit on the steps instead.
And I listen to her heartbeat until mine forgets how to be quiet.
—
I don’t sleep.
Not really.
Vampire physiology makes it more… resting than dreaming. Most nights it’s just darkness, a cold and comfortable nothing that never asks anything of me.
But lately?
She’s there.
Hazel.
Every time I close my eyes, she’s already in the room—laughing, grinning, glaring, pacing around the inside of my head like she’s lived there all along and just waited for me to notice.
Tonight, I’m in the old sanctum. The one I burned to the ground after Rowen died. The stone is still cracked under my feet, but there’s no fire now.
Just her.
She’s sitting on the altar like it’s a picnic table, legs swinging, chewing on a licorice wand. Hair wild. Boots scuffed.
