CHAPTER 193

**WINTER** 

I slid under the covers, dragging the blanket up to my chin like it might actually protect me. But it didn’t help. The sheets felt too cold, the air too still. I wasn’t comfortable—I was hiding. 

Pretending that cotton and thread could shield me from whatever the hell was out there.

The house was silent.

Not the soft, sleepy kind of silence. This was the kind that pressed against your ears and made every tiny sound feel too loud. My own breathing felt suspicious. My heartbeat thumped in my throat like it was trying to alert someone to my location.

Every shadow seemed to stretch longer. Every floorboard creak turned into a whisper I couldn’t quite hear. I’d already checked the locks—twice. 

Then again. 

I shut every window. 

Closed every curtain. 

I even opened the closet door just to make sure no one was hiding inside like some horror movie cliché.

Still, my eyes kept flicking to the hallway. To the crack beneath the door.

Was that shadow always there?

Did I hear footsteps?

No. No, it's just the house settling. Or maybe the wind. Or maybe—

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to slow my thoughts, but my mind wouldn't shut up. It kept dragging me back to that message.

Like someone knew. Like they were out there right now, waiting for me to fall asleep.

Watching.

I shook my head, forcing the spiralling thoughts back.

“Stop being paranoid,” I muttered aloud.

“There’s nothing here. You’re just tired. Someone’s probably just trying to get under my skin—maybe one of the cheerleaders, or Cindy. She’s been bitter ever since Zion dumped her... Probably got someone to freak me out. I don’t know...”

But even as the words left my lips, my eyes flickered down to my phone lying on the nightstand. 

The screen was dark now, but I knew it wouldn’t stay that way for long. Every buzz, every ping, sent a fresh wave of dread curling through my chest.

I didn’t want to look, didn’t want to give whatever was out there the satisfaction of knowing I was scared. 

But my fingers twitched, aching to grab the phone, to check the message again—just to convince myself it wasn’t real.

I fought the urge.

For now.

Because no matter how hard I tried, my mind refused to let go. That message—the words burned into my brain—kept dragging me back, like a shadow I couldn’t shake.

The one that lodged itself in my chest like a shard of glass and refused to stop cutting.

It had come the moment I stepped through the front door. Not five minutes later. Not a random fluke. 

The moment my foot hit the hardwoolater phone buzzed—once. Just once.

Like someone was waiting.

Watching.

I remember the way the blood drained from my face as I looked down at the screen. No name. No photo. Just an unknown number and a message that felt like a knife pressed to my throat:

**“Home sweet home, pretty girl. Run. Hide. Lock the doors. I’m still coming.”**

No contact name. 

Just a string of random numbers I didn’t recognize. 

No context. 

No emojis. 

Just words, thirteen of them—etched into my brain like they were branded there with a hot iron:

“Home sweet home, pretty girl. Run. Hide. Lock the doors. I’m still coming.”

The moment I read it, something in me went cold.

Not scared—paralyzed.

Like the air had been sucked from the room.

Like my heart had skipped a beat and never found its rhythm again.

It wasn’t a threat. It was a promise. And somehow, the worst part was how calm the words were. No exclamation marks. No rage. Just quiet certainty.

And that’s when the cold truth hit me. Whoever was sending these messages didn’t just know I was home. They knew I was home alone.

The thought curled inside my chest, squeezing tighter with every second, tightening the noose of dread around me.

Calculated.

Cruel.

I lie awake, stiff beneath the covers, my pulse thudding loudly in my ears.

My phone glows faintly in the dark, screen littered with the messages I’ve read a hundred times. 

Each word twists like glass under my skin. I scroll back again, desperate for a clue—something in the phrasing, the punctuation, anything that might tell me who’s behind this. But it’s just the same cryptic venom. 

Mocking. 

Watching.

I’d stared at the message for a long moment, heart hammering, before my instincts finally kicked in. 

I hit call, desperate to hear a voice, any voice I could scream at and tell to leave me the hell alone.

But all I got was an automated response.

The number you are dialling is not recognized. Please check and try again.

I did. 

Twice. 

Same result. 

The number was gone—like it had never existed.

Now, with footsteps outside my door and a shadow shifting behind the curtain, the memory slams into me with full force.

This isn’t a prank.

This isn’t nothing.

Someone is out there.

And they know where I live.

It had felt like a prank at first. 

A bad joke. 

Dad and Jenny are out at some business party across town. They won’t be home for hours. 

And Zion… he still hadn’t come back. Maybe he was at football practice, or maybe with some girl. The thought twisted in my gut—sharp, unwelcome, and impossible to shake.
So what—he was just my friend, right? 

He could do whatever he wanted.

But the sting of jealousy mingled with the tight knot of fear in my chest, squeezing the air from my lungs.

I was about to lose myself in those thoughts when a noise pulled me back—sharp and sudden.

—Creak.

A sound so soft I almost miss it… but my body went rigid.

Footsteps.

Slow. 

Deliberate. 

Just outside my bedroom door. 

Not hurried—intentional. 

Measured. 

My breath catches.

A shadow glides across the sliver of light beneath the door, stretching long and still. My chest tightens. A prickle of cold anxiety needles down my spine.

They’re not moving away.

They’re just... standing there.

Waiting.

And now, as I stare at the shadow lingering beneath my door, a bone-deep chill snakes down my spine—I never even thought to check if the front door was locked.

I take a shaky breath, telling myself to calm down. 

It’s nothing. Just your imagination.

But I swear—no, I swear—someone is standing just outside my bedroom door.

Not moving. Not knocking. Just there.

Waiting.

The guards are posted outside. There’s no way anyone could’ve slipped in without them noticing.

So who the hell is out there?

I try to steady my breathing, telling myself it’s nothing. Maybe the old house settling. Or the wind playing tricks.

But even as I convince myself, a part of me won’t let go of the doubt.

My skin feels clammy, the weight of dread pressing down on my chest. 

Sweat beads along my forehead, sliding down the side of my face. 

I wipe it away with trembling fingers, forcing myself to move, to do something—anything that might stop the panic from swallowing me whole.

I clutch the blanket tighter around me, pulling it up to my eyes like it could somehow make me invisible. 

But it doesn’t help.

Get a grip, Winter!

I climb out of bed, my heart pounding. My eyes dart around the room for something—anything—I can use. 

My fingers close around my hairbrush. 

Plastic. Pink. Harmless.

Seriously?

What are you going to do? 

Brush the intruder to death? 

I think bitterly, a half-hysterical laugh almost bubbling up. I grip the handle tighter anyway.

I tiptoe toward the door. 

The only thing separating me from whoever—or whatever—is outside is the wooden bedroom door.

I swallow hard, frozen. Then—slow, deliberately—the doorknob begins to turn just beyond the door. 

My heart slams against my ribs, and my breath catches in my throat. Fingers trembling, I lift the brush in one shaky hand like a weapon, whispering a desperate prayer under my breath.

I swallowed hard as the doorknob began to twist, slow and deliberate. My breath caught in my throat, my heart pounding like a drum in my chest.

I muttered under my breath, “No. Not backing down. I’ll take whoever it is down with me…”

Then I glanced at the pink brush in my hand—fancy and fragile-looking.

“Okay, maybe not down down.” I rolled my eyes, tightening my grip anyway.

And then I freeze.

“Whoa,” a voice says, calm and familiar. 

“Easy, killer.”

It’s Zion.

He’s standing there with his hands up, palms out like I’m holding a gun instead of a hairbrush. 

His eyes flick to the brush, then back to my face, and he blinks once, slowly.

I exhale shakily, every ounce of tension in me suddenly replaced by a wave of mortified heat.

Zion cocks his head slightly. 

“Were you about to attack me with...a brush?”

I don’t answer. 

I just lower my arm, feeling ridiculous. My fingers uncurl and the brush clatters onto the couch near the door.

“Seriously,” he says, stepping forward with a little smirk. 

“What was the plan? Hit me with the detangling end until I surrendered? Or were you going for a dramatic styling session?”

“Shut up,” I mutter, trying to hide how hard I’m blushing. 

“It was the only thing near me.”

Zion laughs softly, but the amusement in his eyes doesn’t mask the concern beneath. He studies me for a moment, his voice quieting. 

“I didn’t see you after class today. And when I got home, Arthur said you came straight up and never left. He thought maybe you were sick or something. But... I don’t know. Something felt off. So I came to check on you.”

There’s confusion in his voice now, a crease forming between his brows. 

“Why are you acting like someone’s out to get you?”

I don’t know what to say. 

My throat is tight. My whole body is still wired with fear, and my mind is screaming the same thing over and over.

I look at him—his steady eyes, the calm presence that used to feel so safe—and wonder if I should tell him. If I can tell him.

But the words are still stuck in my throat.