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“Misty,” I hiss and rush over, moving her face away from the dirty floor and check over her body. Her eyes grow wide when she sees my mask. I pull off my jacket and drape it over her, covering her, leaving me exposed.

“I won’t hurt you,” I reassure her, trying to speak softly as I assist her to her feet.

Her fingers find my hair. “Summer? Is that you?”

My hair… Why does everyone recognize me because of my hair?

It’s then I sense him, like an otherworldly god-like presence sifting into the room, snaking around my heart. The ancient presence manifested into the body of my boyfriend.

Piano music wafts down from a hidden speaker, and he’s standing a mere ten feet away, hiding in the shadows of the room. A stream of moonlight from a nearby window hits him. He says nothing—he’s contemplative and quiet.

The vision of him takes my breath away. He’s never looked so sexy in his tight black shirt, and I have a senseless urge to bare it all for him and let him stab me.

Instead, the rational part of my brain takes over. My conscience kicks in—the one I need to prove to myself that I have.

“Let her go,” I tell him, rising to my feet to face him. “She’s not part of this.”

He tilts his head, and then I notice his glasses on the bridge of his nose, and I breathe a deep sigh of relief as they reflect in the candlelight.

Those glasses…it must be him.

I blow out a breath and take one slow, cautious step toward him. “Lincoln? Is that you?”

I narrow my eyes as he slowly and methodically grabs his glasses and pulls them into his right hand. His motions are so calm and composed. “You have to run, Summer.”

My flesh crawls. “Lincoln, don’t leave me again, please. You have to face him. I can help you work through this.”

He reaches out and grabs my shoulders. “Summer…it’s too late for me. You need to listen to me and run.”

I set my jaw and shake my head. “I don’t want to run. I miss you so much.”

His eyes look pained and listless. “I’m telling you to fucking run, baby.”

“Why?” I sob, digging my heels in.

His body goes lucid, his breath shallow, as if he’s disintegrating in front of me. “Because he’s here…and he’ll kill you if you don’t.”

Suddenly, he’s not Lincoln any longer. In a flash, his head jolts, and those flickering eyes greet me.

Fuck.

I retreat a couple of steps, and my breath turns raspy. “Mikael?” I whisper. “Please tell me that’s you.”

I can handle Mikael. I can reason with Mikael…I think. But whoever this is⁠—

He slowly shakes his head and squeezes his hand, breaking the glasses, gripping them so tightly they turn into a little ball of glass and wire in his gloved hand.

Pure hatred spews out of him like the devil. He drops all but one sharp piece of glass, which clanks on the floor, and he holds it between his thumb and index finger.

I have witnessed the precision and skill of those fingers that hold sharp objects. My terror outweighs any lust or love I’ve ever known. My skin burns as he takes a few steps closer, his body tense and rigid.

“Who are you?” I ask.

“You know what I am.” His voice is raspy and mean, and I don’t like it.

This isn’t a person, this isn’t a god, or whatever he wants to refer to himself. He is nothing more than a primal emotion.

One. Primal. Feeling.