"Miles... stop," Ivy whispered.
But it came out too soft.
Too breathless.
He leaned closer. Their foreheads nearly touched. His lips brushed her cheek—barely, just barely. His breath smelled like mint and secrets.
"Do you really want me to stop?" he whispered.
His voice was velvet... but off. Like it wasn't just him speaking.
Something inside her chest twisted. It was wrong. All of this was wrong.
But it didn't feel wrong.
It felt like gravity.
It felt like fate.
"No," she finally said.
Miles smiled.
Not a boy's smile. A man's.
A predator's.
He brushed the hair behind her ear, and Ivy leaned into the touch like a girl who had already chosen her side.
He kissed her. Slow. Possessive. Like he owned her mouth. Like she was his to break.
She kissed him back.
Their bodies collided like fire meeting oil—too fast, too dangerous, and far too late to stop.
But somewhere in the shadows of Ivy's mind, someone screamed.
And it wasn't her.
Down the hallway, Flora crept toward Kate's room, clutching her stuffed animal to her chest. She heard sounds. Whispers. Breathing. A voice that wasn't Ivy's... but came from her room.
She stopped in the hallway.
And stared.
The mirror outside Ivy's room—old, cracked—shifted. Moved.
A reflection of Peter Quint passed behind her.
But when she turned, nothing was there.
Mrs. Grose had warned Kate. Begged her to leave. But it was too late now.
The signs were everywhere.
Ivy had changed. Her eyes no longer held innocence. Her smile was crooked. Her laugh wasn't hers.
He was inside her.
Peter was winning.
And Miles... poor Miles...
Or whatever was left of him.
Back in the bedroom, the kiss had deepened.
Ivy was under him now, her heart thundering. Their bodies tangled, her shirt halfway undone, his hands exploring her like he needed her to survive.
But something flashed in his eyes.
Something not human.
"You're mine now," he whispered into her throat.
"I've always been," she whispered back, dazed.
She didn't know why she said it. It just... slipped out. Like it had been buried there all along.
He smiled. But it was not Miles's smile.
It was Peter's.
Suddenly, Ivy gasped.
Her nails dug into the bedsheets as her chest heaved. Her vision blurred.
She felt something inside her.
Like another heartbeat.
Something dark was threading itself into her mind—like smoke, or poison. Like him.
Peter.
He was claiming her.
From within.
And she was letting him.
Downstairs, Kate raced down the hall, her fists pounding against Ivy's door.
"Ivy, open this door!"
Silence.
Then a click.
Ivy stood in the doorway, eyes shadowed, lips swollen, hair a mess.
"Miles is sleeping," she said softly.
Kate's face paled. "Let me in."
"I said—he's sleeping."
Kate shoved past her. The bed was empty. The window wide open. Cold air flooded the room.
"Ivy," Kate whispered, "what's happening to you?"
Ivy turned.
And smiled.
But it wasn't her smile.
It was hers—Miss Jessel's.
Kate staggered back.
"No. No... oh my God."