“Emma?”

Silence. I searched every corner, every nook and cranny, but…she wasn’t there.

I waited, five minutes, ten, but she never appeared.

She wasn’t going to, was she?

Hope died, the disappointment returning. “Emma,” I said, my chin trembling. My ceiling fan whirled overhead, creating a slight rustle, but there was no other discernible sound.

I’d left my curtains open, I realized distantly, and stalked over to close them.

The moment my fingers touched the fabric, I froze.

Bridezilla—and what could only be her groom—stood just behind the fence, a ray of moonlight spotlighting both of them. They were staring at me, their lips peeled back from their teeth—their very sharp teeth.

Her dress was ripped, dirty, her eyes sunken. Her skin was pitted, with patches of something black oozing from her pores. There wasn’t a veil on her head, but there was hardly any hair, either, just long stringy strands with leaves tangled throughout.

The man beside her wore an equally ripped and dirty tux. He possessed the same sunken eyes, pitted skin and thinning hair. That odd black ooze covered both his chin and dripped…dripped…

Bridezilla swiped out an arm, as if she was reaching for me.

I scrambled backward, tripped, landed on my butt. The impact rattled my brain and maybe even knocked some sense loose. Monsters would have attacked me while they’d had the chance, so this had to be a joke. The two were probably human and wearing costumes. Had probably applied grotesque makeup. But…who would play a joke like this? Who would go to such extremes, for such a long period of time? Who would know this was the perfect way to torment me?

No one, that’s who.

Guess my theory needed work. Drawing on every bit of my courage, I forced myself to stand and approach the window. Another peek outside revealed…the pair was gone. Gone.

I nearly shrieked with frustration.

What the heck was happening? What had I seen? And how had I spoken to my baby sister?

I sank to my knees and buried my head in my hands. I was worse than my dad. There was no denying it now. No hoping otherwise.

Oh, Daddy. I should have been nicer to him. I should have spent more time with him. Should have been more understanding of his psychosis, more sympathetic. I should have comforted him rather than complained about him.

Should—a word of anguish rather than consolation.

The next morning, my eyes burned with fatigue as I wandered the halls of Asher High. (Go Tigers.) There were more posters on the walls, and they were now joined by streamers. I’d spent the entire night propped up by the window, desperate for another glimpse of Emma, frightened by the thought of those imaginary monsters.

Seriously, how pathetic was I?

I couldn’t function without sleep much longer, and I knew it. My mind had turned to mush—obviously—and my body felt heavy, weighted down, my steps dragging. The latter was proved when I stumbled into someone. A girl I didn’t recognize. I muttered an apology, and she scurried off without comment.

Think about Em, the freaks and your idiocy later. Just get through the day. Good advice. Fingers crossed, I would listen and obey. Actually, there was a way to guarantee my obedience. Kat. She was the perfect distraction. Except, as I lugged through the crowd, I found myself searching for Cole Holland instead.

My palms sweated as I neared the hallway where I’d seen him yesterday. Distantly I heard the opening and closing of lockers, chatter and laughter, the pound and click of shoes. Closer…was he there again today? I squared my shoulders as I rounded the corner, trying to prepare myself for impact, just in case.

Good thing. He was there.

Play it cool, Bell. He leaned against a locker, his hands stuffed into his jean pockets. He wore another hat, this one blue. Shadows cascaded over his face, hiding those magnificent violet eyes, but I could see a fresh bruise on his chin and a lesion on his lower lip.

He’d gotten into a fight.

He wore a black T-shirt that stretched indecently over hard-won muscle. A chain wrapped around his waist, and I would have sworn there were flecks of dried blood on the end. His boots were freshly polished yet severely scuffed.

His friends surrounded him, though there weren’t as many this time. Every single one of them sported a bruise somewhere—face, neck, arms, knuckles—some worse than others. Both of Frosty’s wrists were bandaged, hiding his tattoos.

Okay, seriously. They had to be part of some kind of fight club.

“Hey, Ali.” Oops. Frosty had caught me staring at him. Rather than chastising me, he gave me a sunshine-happy grin. “Lookin’ good today.”

“Thanks,” I replied, trying not to shift nervously. Okay, so I’d dug out my best jeans and a flowing gray-and-white lace top that made me look chestier than I actually was. So what. It didn’t mean anything.

“Why don’t you make our dreams come true and come talk to us?” he added, all smooth charm and cotton candy sweetness.

I returned my attention to Cole, wondering if he would encourage me to come closer, too. He was now peering at me as well, but he wasn’t grinning. He was scowling.

The moment our gazes met, the rest of the world washed away—

—we were in the middle of the now-empty hallway. His strong arms banded around me, dragging me closer to his body. Heat enveloped me, followed by the scent of sun-dried laundry and sandalwood. No strawberry lollipop this time, but that hardly mattered. He still made my mouth water.

Violet eyes drank me in, as if I were the most beautiful thing in the entire world. “Hold on to me.”

Immediately I complied, tracing my fingers up his chest, around his neck and into his hair. No hat. No injuries. “Like this?”

“Yeah, that’s the way.” And then he pressed our lips together, his tongue sweeping inside my mouth and taking control.

Our heads tilted to opposite sides, allowing deeper contact. A shadow of stubble on his jaw scratched at my skin, but even that was exciting and wonderful and utterly tantalizing.

My second kiss, I thought dazedly, and it was even better than the first. He tasted like mint and cinnamon, and I decided the combination was my new favorite flavor. A necessary start to each and every day. And his hands…oh, the things he did with his hands.

He knew exactly what he was doing. Obviously he had experience, a lot of experience, playing a girl like a piano.

Playing…the word reverberated through my mind. Was this a game to him? Or something more? Like a relationship? Would he talk to me when the kiss ended? Or would he want nothing to do with me? Would his friends think I was easy? Look how quickly I’d fallen into his arms. Would I be known as the Asher Slut, giving tongue to whoever wanted it?

Great. Just my luck. My thoughts could now intrude on my whacked-out hallucinations and I—

“Yo, Ali!”

—I blinked, the dream-kiss vanishing and the rest of the world swooping back into focus. I saw a thinning crowd, heard the slamming of lockers mixed with the pounding of footsteps. Smelled a collage of different perfumes, some sugary, some spicy.

A frowning Kat stood in front of me. “There you are,” she said. “Back from your mental vacation. Do you know you’re, like, hovering in the middle of what I’ve deemed social Siberia, blocking traffic?”

“Sorry,” I replied.

A sigh left her. “I know people say apologizing is a sign of weakness, but I think it’s a sign of strength—when people do it to me. Just do me a favor and capture my next words like the beautiful butterflies they are and never let them go. If you don’t wipe Cole Holland from your mind, you’ll end up on the SS Miserable with me.”