Don't Trust Anyone

Selena

I got the text again.

The second I read that message, I dropped my phone.

It hit the wooden floor with a thud, bounced once, then slid under the couch. My breath froze. My chest? Tight. Like someone had taken a fist and just wedged it between my ribs and twisted.

I scrambled on my knees, reaching under the couch like a madwoman. My fingers shook, grazing dust and something sticky—don’t think about that—and finally, the cold metal edge of my phone. I yanked it out. The screen lit up.

Blank.

Just my wallpaper. That stupid picture of a dying sunflower I thought looked artsy once.

I pulled down my notifications. Nothing. No text. No number. No threat.

I swear on everything it was there. The message. I saw it. I read it. My skin still felt like it was crawling from the way it made my stomach drop.

I sat back on the floor, knees up, elbows on top, and buried my face in my arms. I counted in my head.

One. Two. Three. Four.

A breath. Another.

I needed to stop freaking out. Maybe it was a prank. Maybe I imagined it. I hadn’t slept. My brain was jelly. That had to be it.

Right?

Except deep down, I knew better.

I didn’t sleep that night either. And the next day, I didn’t eat. I just moved.

Robot mode.

Brushed my teeth. Threw on a hoodie. Skipped makeup. Pulled my hair into a bun that didn’t hold and flopped halfway down my neck. I didn’t even care.

The walk to school was slow. Foggy. The sky was gray. People brushed past me, talking, laughing. I couldn’t hear them. It was like being underwater. Muffled and weird.

When I got to the hallway, Sarah waved at me from her locker. She said something. I nodded. No clue what she said.

I went to math. Sat down. Didn’t write anything. Just stared at the whiteboard until numbers started to melt together.

Then I saw him.

Dominic.

Outside the window, across the courtyard. Leaning against the statue like he was posing for a movie poster. Hoodie up. Hands in pockets. That dead-eyed, unreadable look plastered across his face like always.

My stomach flipped.

I stood. Didn’t even ask. Just walked out.

I found him leaning on the railing near the bleachers behind the gym. Same spot as last time. Like he knew I’d come. Or hoped I would.

“Hey,” I said, not even sure why.

He didn’t look at me. “Hey.”

“I got a message.”

He didn’t answer.

“Last night. After I got home, I got a text. It said… it said I should be careful. That you were dangerous.”

Silence. He shifted, slightly, like maybe that hit something.

“You wanna explain that?” I asked. My voice cracked, and I hated that it did. I sounded small. Weak.

He finally looked at me.

“Do you believe it?”

“I don’t know what I believe anymore,” I snapped. “You told me you’re a freaking werewolf. You’ve been watching me. And now people are sending me threats about you. What am I supposed to believe?”

His jaw clenched. That same muscle twitched near his temple. I watched it.

“It wasn’t me,” he said quietly.

I folded my arms, staring him down. “Then who was it?”

He shook his head. “Someone who knows.”

“Knows what?”

“That we’re connected. That we always are.”

“That I die.”

His lips pressed into a thin line. He didn’t nod. He didn’t deny it.

I stepped closer. “What are you not telling me?”

“There’s always someone,” he murmured. “Every lifetime, every version of you. Someone who tries to stop us. Someone who thinks they’re protecting you.”

“I couldn't recall my past life but since I met you, it comes in fragments. In dreams sometimes.” He added.

“And what if they’re right?” I shot back.

His eyes snapped up, sharp now. “They’re not.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do,” he said, louder. “Because I’ve lost you too many times. And every time, it’s worse. I won’t let it happen again.”

I backed up a step. My hand grazed the metal railing, and it burned cold. I gripped it. My fingers ached.

“You keep saying that,” I muttered. “But it still happens. So maybe the problem is you.”

He looked like I slapped him. His mouth opened, then shut. No words. Just… pain.

“I didn’t mean—” I started.

“No,” he cut in. “You’re right. You’re probably right. I’m the reason. I’m the curse.”

I winced. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

We stood there, the wind blowing between us like something alive.

My lips snapped together. I wanted to scream. Cry. Run. Kiss him. What?

Where did that last thought come from? I didn’t know.

He exhaled hard and turned away.

Then—

“You’re glowing,” he whispered.

I blinked. “What?”

He pointed. My wrist.

I looked down.

There was a faint shimmer under the skin. Like silver ink. A mark I hadn’t noticed before. Swirls and lines I couldn’t understand, shaped like vines and loops.

“What the hell—”

I touched it. My fingers burned. I yanked them back.

Dominic reached for me instinctively, but I flinched. He stopped mid-motion.

“It’s starting,” he said. “You’re remembering. The bond’s forming again.”

“What bond?”

He looked at me, and I could’ve sworn his eyes flickered—not just with light, but with something… old.

“Us.”

I shook my head. “No. No, this is crazy. This can’t be happening.”

“It always happens.”

“I’m not her,” I snapped. “Whoever she was—whatever past version of me you think I am—I’m not. I’m me.”

“I know,” he said, softer now. “That’s why it hurts more.”

I stared at him.

He stepped forward. Close enough that I could smell him again—soap, something woody, something warm.

“If someone’s coming for you,” he said, “I’ll stop them.”

“And if it’s you?” I whispered.

His hands trembled. I saw it. For once, he didn’t look strong or confident or eternal. He looked like a boy. A scared, ancient boy stuck in the same nightmare on repeat.

“I’d rather die,” he said.

And I didn’t know what to say to that.

I left him there.

Not because I hated him. Not because I believed the texts. But because my skin still tingled where the mark glowed.

I needed answers. I needed air.

I got home early.

Glendale was sitting in the kitchen. A half-drunk cup of coffee in front of her, hands wrapped around it like she was cold even though the heater was on full blast.

“You’re home early,” she said.

“Yeah.”

She watched me. Her eyes were sharp again. Cold.

“You okay?”

I nodded.

“You look pale.”

“I’m tired.”

A beat passed.

Then she said, “You’ve been spending time with that boy. The hockey player.”

I froze.

“What about it?”

“I saw him drop you off the other night.”

I didn’t answer.

“You should be careful,” she said, voice light but clipped. “Guys like that… they don’t always want what you think they want.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“I didn’t say you couldn’t.”

I turned to leave. She stood up fast, like she’d been waiting for it.

“Selena,” she said, almost too calmly.

I stopped.

“I’m just saying. Don’t let history repeat itself.”

I turned to look at her. “What does that mean?”

She smiled. Tight. Sad. “Nothing.”

That night, I couldn’t sleep again.

I lay on my back, hoodie tangled around my waist, phone on my chest.

No new messages.

But I couldn’t stop staring at the ceiling, at the shadows shifting.

At the faint glowing mark on my wrist, pulsing like a warning.

Like something was waking up.

Inside me.

Or waiting.