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CHAPTER 2

ZION

Revenge. It consumes me entirely. It’s the driving force in my life. My hatred for Winter has become an obsession, a consuming fire that has burned within me for years. Today, it has reached a new peak.

Seeing her again, after all these years of avoiding her, is like an intoxicating rush. I didn't believe my stepfather when he said she’d be coming here. Part of me hoped it was a lie, but a darker part of me craved it to be true. The idea of having her close, finally within my reach, is almost too thrilling to bear.

For years, I steered clear of her, avoiding any contact and keeping my distance. But now she’s here, in my home, and every suppressed emotion surges to the surface.

My fingers clench into fists at the thought of being near her. Watching her glance around with that puzzled frown—she’s stunning, more so than I remembered. My hands ache to touch her, to mark her, to feel her skin against mine. I want to breathe in her scent and let it overwhelm me. But I can’t let myself be swayed by her beauty.

I remind myself that her allure is just a facade, a mask hiding the ugly truth beneath. Winter is nothing more than a liar, a pretender among the shallow crowd. I can’t afford to lose focus.

As I watch Winter approach, a cold, unsettling feeling tightens in my chest. She moves with that graceful, effortless charm, a smile playing on her lips that seems almost sad. Her eyes meet mine, and she says,

“I’m sorry, Zion. It’s been so long since I saw you, and I hugged you without thinking. I missed you.”

For a moment, everything around us fades. Her voice, though softened by years and distance, cuts through the haze of my anger. I can see the effort behind her smile, the hope for some semblance of warmth or recognition.

But I don’t give her the satisfaction. I stare at her, my expression blank, as I lift my beer to my lips. The bitter taste does nothing to dull the rage simmering inside me. Winter’s presence is a reminder of the past I’ve tried to bury, and I’m not ready to deal with any of it, especially not with her.

I take another swig, avoiding her gaze, and let the silence stretch between us. Her smile falters slightly, and I can see the hurt in her eyes as she waits for a response that never comes. The weight of our shared history hangs heavily in the air, but I’m not about to let it crack my hardened exterior.

“Are you mad at me for some reason?” Winter asks, her voice tinged with a mix of concern and uncertainty.

“No,” I snap, though my tone betrays the simmering anger I feel. It’s clear as day that I’m not overjoyed to see her, but I refuse to give her the satisfaction of knowing just how deep my resentment runs.

“Are you sure?” she presses, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear, trying to maintain her composure.

I grunt in response, unable to muster the energy for a real conversation. She’s not worth it.

“I just got here about an hour ago and haven’t had a chance to unpack yet. Not that I have much to unpack—I’m not exactly a fashionista, so I like to keep things simple,” she chuckles nervously, her smile faltering as she looks at me.

“I suppose I should get started on that.”

Winter forces a smile, trying to bridge the chasm between us with a look of tentative hope. Her eyes flicker with an awkward blend of sadness and discomfort, but I remain indifferent.

Winter’s gaze drops, and she fidgets with the edge of her plate, clearly uncomfortable with the cold reception. The silence stretches, heavy and palpable. She tries to meet my eyes once more, searching for any sign of recognition or warmth but finds only a wall of indifference.

“Well, I, um, guess I’ll see you around…”

She glances at me, but I offer no response.

With a defeated sigh, she picks up her plate, the clatter of utensils ringing louder than it should. Her shoulders slump slightly as she turns to walk away, her steps hesitant and slow. The weight of our unspoken tension hangs heavily between us, and I can feel her discomfort in the air.

Clark steps up beside me, observing her retreating figure, but I remain focused on my beer, the anger simmering beneath the surface as I watch Winter disappear into the crowd

“Is that her?” he asks, nodding toward Winter with a curious look

"Yeah, that's her," the anger still boiling beneath the surface.

“She’s pretty, in a Snow White sort of way,” Clark comments. He’s not wrong—except for the golden hair, she has the same pale skin and red lips that fit the Snow White description. And I suppose that makes me the huntsman. But unlike the fairy tale, my story with her won’t have a happy ending. This huntsman is here to hunt her down, and she’s very much my prey.

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