Page 6 of Dark

Two girls trailed into the park after him, flip flops smacking noisily on the asphalt. One had pigtails. The other, braids. Wandering over to a patch of daisies a few yards away, they began poking flowers into their hair, ignoring me. Which was fine. Girls were pretty much useless. Swatting at mosquitos, I went back to sketching.

“What are you drawing?”

Pigtails marched over, twirling a pale daisy with a sunny yellow center in both hands. She jutted out her hip. I scowled. But she was August’s age. And even if she wasn’t, I didn’t hit girls.

“Go away.”

But because the universe never listened, she squatted beside me. “Can I see?”

I hugged the sketchpad closer.

“No.”

She stuck her face six inches from mine, dark brown hair tickling my cheek. Her eyes were the palest shade of blue I’d ever seen, like a winter sky washed in high, wispy clouds. And she was freaking annoying. After a minute of dangling the daisy in my face, she lunged for my paper. Snarling, I jerked it out of her reach.

“Don’t you have flowers to terrorize?”

She laughed like I’d just said the funniest thing in the world, then leaned in close to my ear.

“I like your glasses.”

Cheeks flaming, I glared and darted a look around, hoping Brody or worse, Dallas, hadn’t heard. No one, absolutely no one, had ever said that. Mostly I got called Hairy Farter. Or Turd Breath. Exasperated, I tapped Pigtails on the end of the nose with my pencil the way I would have August.

“And I think you’re trouble.”

“Hayden!”

You wised up to a lot of things real quick in foster care. The first was that fear had a certain smell—a taste, like something gone sour on the back of your tongue. And the way Pigtails’ eyes widened before she hurriedly brushed off her shorts, abandoning the little kingdom of daisies and scurrying off clutching hands tightly with Braids, brought my wolf clawing for the surface like nothing else.

Ben and Sofia knew how to throw a cookout. There were burgers and hotdogs fresh off the grill. Corn on the cob and salad with big cold tomato wedges. Macaroni and cheese with bits of crumbled bacon that was so good I ate three servings, then tucked back in for guacamole with chips. And then for dessert, warm peach cobbler and vanilla ice cream.

At a little table away from the others, Hayden and her sister Ellie ate like it was the last time they would see food, sneaking rolls into their pockets when they thought no one was looking, something I kept getting in trouble for whenever Ben found food hidden in the bunkroom.

And suddenly, despite the fact that she was annoying and a girl, I felt sick for the little daisy menace. And so later, as the plates were being tossed into garbage sacks and everyone else was scrambling to grab clear drink cups and plastic lids to catch the first fireflies of spring, I dropped a scrap of paper into her lap.

“Psst… Daisy.”

She frowned. Unfolded it as I ran off. But from across the lawn, I watched those pale blue eyes light up in a starry smile.

And in the moment I felt my wolf claw longingly in my ribcage, stirring sensations it would be years before I could even come up with a name for, I knew only two things.

Hayden Crowe was trouble. And I was seriously screwed.

2

Ethan

IT WAS TUESDAY NIGHT. I’d been up since 4 a.m. And I was getting my ass kicked by a girl. More specifically, Hayden Crowe. Think five and a half feet of vintage tees, don’t-fuck-with-me looks, and a collection of short skirts and tight jeans that were nearly the source of me putting my own eyes out back when she was still in high school. All I needed now was for West to get wind of it and I would have my very own hashtag. #WerePussy, or some shit.

That was the thing about having six brothers. Sure, someone always had your back. Someone, meaning August or Cal. Brody, like most firstborns, had to always be right. Which most of the time he channeled into stuff like going after the lowlifes who dumped boxes of stray puppies out on the side of Highway 29. But you better believe he could shut down group texts faster than a flash hailstorm when he got on a tear railing about outlawing crushed ice at the mini-mart or threatening to audition for the next season of The Voice just to prove the thing was rigged. Dallas had more claws than a sack of wet cats if you caught him on a weekend the Cowboys lost. And don’t even get me started on River. Which was why putting the seven of us together in the same room with booze was a four-alarm dumpster fire.

“Someone’s trying to kill me.”

Hayden slumped against the wall just beneath a chalkboard welcome sign festooned with cinnamon-red maple leaves and pumpkins with long curling stems. My heart kicked in my chest, feelings that should never have been there in the first place threatening to force their way up from some long-forgotten recess of my mind.

“They’ll have to get in line.”

In answer, she flipped me off. I rubbed my bottom lip, hiding a smile. So not completely gone.