The Girl Who Saw Me

JULIAN

Memory is a strange thing—how it twists and tangles, hiding when you need it most and ambushing you when you least expect it. Tonight, as I walked away from that dinner, a memory hit me with the force of a physical blow, nearly dropping me to my knees in the empty hallway.

I was ten years old again, small for my age and constantly proving myself to my older cousins. They'd dared me to venture deeper into the woods at the edge of our territory than any of us were allowed to go.

"Go to the lightning oak," Vincent had taunted, his adolescent face twisted in a sneer. "Unless you're too scared."

I wasn't scared. I was desperate to belong.

The forest had been quiet that day, too quiet. I should have recognized the warning signs, but I was a foolish pup with something to prove. I'd just reached the ancient oak, split down the middle by lightning decades ago, when I caught their scent.

Rogues.