CHAPTER 3 — TEETH UNDER THE SKIN
After the kiss, everything is different—and nothing is allowed to be.
Patrick doesn’t touch me the next day.
Not accidentally. Not on purpose. Not even with a look that lingers too long. He keeps a careful distance, like he’s drawn an invisible circle around himself and decided I’m safer on the outside of it.
I hate it.
The woods seem louder than before, like they know something I don’t. Cicadas scream until my head hurts. The air presses down, thick and wet, making it hard to breathe. Camp Magnolia feels smaller now, hemmed in by trees that lean inward, watching.
At breakfast, Patrick sits across from me instead of beside me. His knee doesn’t brush mine. He doesn’t smile when I look up.
Shane does.
“You gonna survive the heat, crossword?” Shane asks, grinning like he already knows the answer.
“I’m fine,” I say.
Patrick’s jaw tightens. He stares into his coffee like it’s done something wrong.
We’re assigned free swim that afternoon. The lake is dark, the water warm and opaque, hiding whatever lives beneath the surface. I sit on the dock with my feet dangling, book forgotten beside me.
Patrick swims like he’s trying to outrun something.
His strokes are strong, powerful, cutting clean lines through the water. He disappears under the surface for too long—long enough that my chest tightens—then breaks back up, gasping, hair slicked back, eyes wild for just a second before he schools them calm again.
When he finally climbs out, dripping and breathing hard, he doesn’t look at me.
“Can we talk?” I ask quietly.
“Not here,” he says.
“Then where?”
He hesitates. “The trails. After dinner.”
That’s all I get.
The hours crawl. Dinner tastes like nothing. I barely hear the counselors droning on about rules and safety. I keep watching the tree line, half-expecting it to move on its own.
When the sun starts to sink, Patrick finds me without a word and jerks his head toward the woods.
We walk side by side down a narrow path, the ground soft beneath our shoes. The farther we go, the quieter it gets. No laughter. No whistles. Just the creak of branches and the steady pulse of insects.
He stops near a clearing I haven’t seen before.
“I can’t do this,” he says abruptly.
My heart stutters. “Do what?”
“Whatever this is.” He gestures vaguely between us. “You. Me. Last night.”
I swallow. “You kissed me.”
“I know.” His voice cracks. “That’s the problem.”
I step closer. “Then don’t act like it didn’t matter.”
He laughs once, sharp and humorless. “It mattered too much.”
The air feels charged again, thick with unsaid things. I can smell him—soap, sweat, something wild underneath.
“Patrick,” I say softly. “Talk to me.”
He looks at me like he’s deciding whether to lie.
“There are nights,” he says slowly, “when I’m not myself.”
I nod. “Everyone has those.”
“No,” he says. “Not like this.”
He turns away, dragging a hand through his hair. “Sometimes I wake up sore. Covered in dirt. Sometimes blood.”
My stomach drops. “Blood?”
“Not always mine.”
The woods seem to lean closer.
“Are you hurting people?” I ask.
He spins back to me, eyes blazing. “No. Never. I would never—”
He stops himself, breathing hard.
“I’m trying to protect you,” he says. “You don’t understand what you’re standing next to.”
“Then help me understand,” I say.
For a long moment, he just looks at me. Then he reaches down and lifts the hem of his shirt.
My breath leaves me all at once.
There are scars. Old ones. New ones. Long, jagged lines across his ribs and stomach, like something clawed its way out of him and back in again.
“I heal fast,” he says quietly. “Too fast.”
I reach out without thinking. My fingers hover just above his skin.
“Don’t,” he whispers—but he doesn’t move away.
My hand brushes his side. He shudders, sharp and full-body, like the touch hurts and comforts him at the same time.
“I’m not afraid of you,” I say.
“You should be.”
“I’m not.”
His control snaps.
He grabs my wrist, not rough but firm, pulling my hand against his chest. His heart is racing. Too fast.
“You don’t get it,” he says, breath hot against my ear. “If I lose control—”
“Then we face it,” I say. “Together.”
He groans softly, forehead pressing to mine. “You’re going to ruin me.”
“Maybe you’ll save me,” I whisper back.
For a second, I think he’s going to kiss me again.
Instead, he lets go and steps back like he’s been burned.
“Go,” he says. “Please.”
I don’t want to. Every instinct in me screams to stay. But something in his face tells me this isn’t a request—it’s a warning.
That night, the cabin is too quiet.
I wait until everyone is asleep, then reach under Patrick’s bunk, heart pounding. I don’t know what I’m looking for. Proof. Lies. Reassurance.
My fingers brush fabric.
I pull it out slowly.
A bundle of clothes, stiff and dark.
Bloodstained.
Fresh.
My breath comes shallow. The smell hits me then—metallic, unmistakable.
Behind me, the cabin door creaks open.
I turn.
Patrick stands there, eyes glowing faintly gold in the dark.
And he knows I know.
When you’re ready, I’ll continue with Chapter 4, where:
Shane makes his move
Patrick’s jealousy turns dangerous
And the first full moon breaks everything open
Just say “Chapter 4” and we keep going, deeper and darker 🖤
continue. get to 15,000 words
Understood. I’ll continue the novel itself, keep the chapters long and romance-forward, and we’ll keep building toward the full ~15,000-word arc. Because of response limits, I’ll deliver one substantial chapter at a time, each ending on a major, destabilizing cliffhanger.
Below is CHAPTER 4, significantly longer, emotionally intense, and where the love triangle ignites and the danger stops being abstract.
