Aidan arrived at college with a pounding headache, his eyes rimmed with exhaustion. Penn had left the previous evening after casually dropping the revelation that she was Mr. Albu's granddaughter. Just as he had started to process that information, she had thrown another cryptic statement his way—that her presence in his house was attracting the evil spirits haunting him. Then, before he could demand an explanation, she had rushed off, leaving him alone with that thought festering inside his mind like a disease.
He had always tried to convince himself that the things he saw—the flickers of shadows where there were none, the cold spots in his room, the whispers at night—were merely tricks of his own imagination. But Penn's words had slashed through his fragile rationality, confirming what he had feared all along.
Something was haunting him.
The red thread she had tied beneath his bed remained where she had left it, but Aidan wasn't sure if it made any difference. Maybe it was just another placebo, a meaningless charm meant to give him the illusion of protection. It certainly hadn't stopped the nightmares. When he had finally drifted into a restless sleep, he had been jolted awake by the same recurring dreams—ones where something unseen breathed down his neck, where cold fingers trailed along his skin, where he woke up gasping for air, clutching his sheets like a lifeline.
Now, as he walked into his psychology class, a dull ache thrummed behind his eyes, and the only thing he wanted was to sink into his usual seat at the back and endure the lecture in peace.
But the moment he stepped inside, he froze.
Damon was sitting in his seat.
Aidan's stomach clenched, his fingers twitching by his side. Damon was leaned back lazily in the chair, his muscular arms folded, his head turned as he talked to Molly, who was practically draped over him. Her fingers curled around his bicep possessively, her high-pitched giggle ringing through the air. Aidan caught snippets of their conversation—something about bicep curls—before he saw Damon flexing his arm for her, the action dripping with practiced cockiness.
Aidan felt a sharp pang in his chest—one he immediately crushed before it could take shape. It didn't matter. It didn't.
He stepped forward, keeping his voice as even as possible despite the way his pulse pounded against his ribs. "That's my seat."
Damon didn't acknowledge him at first, too engrossed in his conversation with Molly. Aidan gritted his teeth, willing his irritation to stay buried, and tried again.
"Excuse me," he said, louder this time. "You're sitting in my seat."
Damon finally turned to face him, blinking as if seeing him for the first time. There was a flicker of something unreadable in his expression before he schooled his face into polite indifference. "Oh, sorry...I didn't know—" He began standing, ready to move, when Molly tightened her grip on his arm and pulled him back down.
"You don't have to leave," she said, her gaze locking onto Aidan with thinly veiled hostility. "This seat isn't reserved. Anyone can sit anywhere they want."
Her voice was sweet, but there was an underlying sharpness to it, a challenge that made Aidan's skin crawl. He had never spoken to Molly before, yet the way she looked at him felt disturbingly familiar—like Mrs. Barik, like someone who had already decided to hate him without reason.
Aidan clenched his jaw, swallowing back the bitter response that was at the tip of his tongue. Molly wasn't wrong. The seats weren't assigned. But the fact that she was suddenly interested in the back row—the one she had never sat in before—wasn't a coincidence. She wanted privacy with Damon. That realization alone sent a wave of heat curling under his skin, an emotion he refused to name.
Damon, sensing the tension, exhaled and stood up. "It's okay, Molly. We can sit somewhere else."
He didn't wait for her to argue, simply guiding her toward the front row seats. She made a noise of protest but followed him nonetheless, flipping her hair as she shot Aidan one last glare.
Aidan slowly sank into his seat, gripping the edge of the desk as his heartbeat rattled against his ribcage.
He should have been relieved that the confrontation had ended so quickly. He should have been grateful that Damon had chosen to walk away instead of making a scene.
But all he could focus on was the hollow ache gnawing at his insides.
Six months.
He had spent six months wondering where Damon had gone, six months obsessing over his absence, over the what-ifs, over the unanswered questions. And now, Damon was right here, sitting a few feet away, acting as if none of it had ever mattered. As if Aidan had never mattered.
And for some reason, that stung more than it should have.
Aidan dropped into his seat, resolute in his decision to erase any and all thoughts of Damon from his mind. He was done obsessing over the demon. Done letting him live rent-free in his head.
He exhaled sharply and turned his attention to the front, but a prickling sensation crawled down his spine—like the ghost of fingers brushing against the nape of his neck. The distinct feeling of being watched.
His head snapped around.
Penn.
She sat a few rows behind him, unnervingly still, her dark eyes locked onto him with the same unreadable expression she always wore. Not a flicker of emotion crossed her face—not curiosity, not amusement, not concern. Just cold, detached observation, like she was watching something mundane.
Aidan swallowed and quickly faced forward. He tried to ignore her, but an uneasy feeling settled in his chest.
His exhaustion, however, soon outweighed his curiosity. His eyelids grew heavy, his thoughts sluggish. The remnants of last night's sleepless torment clung to him, dragging him down, until finally, he slipped into unconsciousness.
Aidan woke up with a start.
His heart pounded in his ears, a deep, resounding thump-thump-thump that drowned out everything else.
The classroom was empty.
The overhead lights were off, leaving only the weak, grayish light from outside to filter through the windows. Shadows stretched unnaturally long across the room. The sky was overcast, thick clouds swirling like ink in water.
A loud thud made him jolt.
The window rattled violently against the sill, battered by a sudden gust of wind. Cold air rushed in, slithering over his skin like icy fingers.
Aidan shivered and looked down at his wristwatch.
It had stopped.
The second hand remained frozen in place, unmoving.
He reached for his phone, but when he pressed the power button, the screen remained black.
Dead.
A tight knot of unease coiled in his stomach. He swallowed against it, his fingers fumbling as he hurriedly packed his bag.
Something wasn't right.
The silence pressed in on him, thick and suffocating.
Shouldering his bag, he stepped out into the hallway.
The corridor was empty.
Too empty.
No lingering students. No fading footsteps. No distant chatter. Just an overwhelming, oppressive stillness.
The air had shifted—heavier now, colder.
Then, the smell hit him.
Rot.
A putrid stench of decay, thick and cloying, wrapping around him like an unseen presence. Aidan's stomach churned violently, bile rising in his throat. His pulse spiked as the fine hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stood on end.
And then, he saw her.
She stood in the middle of the darkened corridor, motionless.
A shadow among shadows.
Aidan's breath hitched. His chest tightened, his vision narrowing as a wave of nausea rolled through him.
Then—
Slap. Slap. Slap.
The unmistakable sound of wet, bare feet on concrete.
Behind him.
No.
No, no, no.
Aidan bolted.
He ran forward, heart hammering against his ribs. The walls seemed to stretch endlessly, the corridor extending far beyond its usual length. No doors. No exit. Just an infinite path of darkness ahead.
Outside, thunder bellowed, shaking the building to its foundation. His legs screamed in protest, muscles burning, but there was nowhere to stop.
And then—
His foot slipped.
Aidan crashed onto the floor, his hands plunging into something warm, slick—
Rotting flesh.
The ground beneath him writhed, shifting with grotesque, squelching noises. The stench intensified, flooding his lungs, making him gag.
He scrambled, desperate to get away, but—
A hand.
Icy fingers clamped around his wrist.
Aidan choked on a scream as something yanked him down, the pressure crushing, suffocating. He clawed at the floor, but his body was sinking—dragged into the writhing, festering mass.
He was going to die.
Aidan jolted awake, gasping.
His clothes clung to his sweat-drenched skin, his chest rising and falling in rapid succession. His fingers dug into the desk, knuckles white.
"Class is over," someone said in passing. Aidan turned sharply, watching a student sling their bag over their shoulder and walk out.
The classroom was empty, but this time, the outside world remained intact.
Voices.
Laughter.
The distant hum of college life carried on beyond the door.
Aidan exhaled shakily.
It had been a dream.
Another one.
But they were getting worse. More vivid. More real.
His stomach churned as he rubbed a trembling hand over his face.
Pushing himself up, he forced his legs to move, making his way down the now-deserted stairwell. His nerves were still raw, but he was determined to shake it off. He needed fresh air, something to ground himself.
Then he saw him.
Damon.
Under the stairs.
His usual flirtatious smirk was gone, replaced by something far colder. His jaw was tight, his expression hard—angry.
Not just irritated.
Seething.
Aidan stilled, instinctively pressing himself against the stairwell railing, his breath held.
Damon's grip was iron-tight around Penn's arm, his fingers digging into her skin. She didn't flinch, but Aidan could tell—it was a hold meant to restrain, to intimidate.
"I need to talk to him," Damon growled.
His voice was low, sharp-edged with something dangerous.
"You shouldn't be touching me, demon."
Penn's voice was sharp, cutting through the empty stairwell like a blade. Her glare was ice-cold as she yanked her arm free from Damon's grip, her movements swift and deliberate.
Damon let out a frustrated breath, raking his fingers through his already disheveled hair. "For fuck's sake," he hissed. "I need to speak to him, Penn. Do you have any idea how fucking hard it is to pretend I don't know him?" His voice was raw, teetering on the edge of desperation.
Penn folded her arms across her chest, her stance shifting into one of unwavering authority. She looked more like a strict schoolteacher disciplining a student than the eerily composed woman she usually was. "You can't," she stated firmly, leaving no room for argument.
Aidan's stomach twisted.
He was a hundred percent certain they were talking about him.
"He's after Aidan," Piho's voice chimed in, as if reminding Damon of a well-established fact. "If you show even a little interest in him, he's going to use him to bait you."
A chill ran down Aidan's spine.
Who was after him?
Damon clenched his jaw, nostrils flaring as his hands balled into fists at his sides. "I know," he ground out. "But I can't go on like this." His voice cracked ever so slightly, betraying the weight he carried.
Penn let out a slow, measured exhale. "I let you come here with me, didn't I?" she said, her voice devoid of sympathy. "So, behave. Now, go back to whatever you were doing." With that, she turned on her heel and strode away without another glance.
Damon didn't move.
He stood frozen, jaw clenched, his eyes dark with something unreadable.
Aidan felt his pulse hammering against his ribcage. His mind reeled, trying to make sense of what he had just overheard.
But one thing was clear—he couldn't keep pretending.
He descended the last few steps with purpose, his breath steady, his resolve unshakable.
When he reached Damon, he placed a firm hand on his shoulder, gripping tightly.
"I know who you are," Aidan said, his voice unwavering. "Don't deny it."
Damon's entire body went rigid.
Slowly, he turned, his expression unreadable—except for the flicker of something in his eyes. Guilt. Fear.
Aidan met his gaze, his own eyes burning with unspoken questions. "I heard you talking to Penn. Tell me what's going on."
Damon's lips parted as if he wanted to say something—anything—but no words came out. He bit down on his lower lip, glancing around as if searching for an escape. His fingers twitched at his sides.
He was hesitating.
Aidan could feel it.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.
Then—
"He can't tell you anything."
Penn's voice rang out from behind them.
Aidan turned sharply to find her standing at the base of the stairs, her expression as unreadable as ever.
"He's enchanted," she explained, stepping closer. "He physically can't speak the truth."
Aidan blinked. "What?" He let out a dry laugh, rubbing a hand down his face. "Is this a joke?"
Penn sighed, as if she had lost all patience. "I didn't want to tell you anything before I caught the evil spirit haunting you." She shot Damon a glare. "But this fucking demon..." She exhaled harshly, shaking her head. "I guess we have to move on to Plan B."
Aidan's stomach dropped.
Evil spirit?
Plan B?
His frustration boiled over. "Would someone just tell me what the hell is going on?" he groaned, his voice edged with exhaustion.
Damon turned to Penn, his gaze dark, his voice quiet but firm. "Just tell him."
Penn rolled her eyes. "Fine!" she shrieked, throwing her arms in the air. Then, without another word, she grabbed Aidan's arm and started dragging him toward the exit of the academic building.
"Wait—where are we going?" Aidan demanded, stumbling after her.
"To a more private place," she said simply.
Aidan swallowed, heart pounding.
Something told him that whatever she told him next would change everything.
***
Author's Note
How are you enjoying this book so far? Things are about to heat up in ways you won't want to miss! Aidan and Damon are going to have some very heated moments—you don't want to miss what's coming next.
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