The night breeze smelled like dust and old cigarettes.
Avery stood just outside James's room, her arms crossed, her thoughts in shambles. The soft creak of the wooden door behind her faded as it shut, muffling the hum of laughter from inside. Laughter that wasn't hers. Laughter that belonged to a girl who wasn't her mother.
Avery had tried not to listen when James said goodbye to her. Tried not to watch the way he leaned against the doorway like he'd done it a hundred times before. He'd smiled. Genuinely. And the girl had smiled back like she was the sun.
And her motherShe didn't know that girl's name. Didn't want to. But she hated her. Irrationally. Passionately. It filled her chest like fire and settled in her stomach like poison
"Hey."
The voice startled her.
James stood behind her now, hands in his pockets, hair tousled from the wind. His eyes met hers—dark, searching.
"You okay?" he asked.
Avery didn't answer at first. Then, slowly, "Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"Do you love her?" Her voice cracked, softer than she meant.
James blinked. "What?"
"The girl. With the cardigan. The one who fixed your face like she's done it a thousand times."
He stared at her, unsure where this was coming from. Then, after a pause, he nodded. "Yeah. I do."
His smile was faint. Honest. "More than my life, probably."
Avery let out a breath that tasted like broken glass. Her laugh was dry. Hollow.
"Wow," she said. "I hate her already."
James tilted his head. "You don't even know her."
"Exactly," she snapped, then looked away. "Makes it easier."
Before he could respond, the back door flung open and slammed into the wall.
A boy burst out—a wiry teen with sweat-soaked bangs and panic in his eyes.
"James!" he shouted, chest heaving. "It's Alex. He's been cornered—by the Widowfangs."
James's expression hardened. "Shit."
"They're saying he crossed one of their new guys. It's bad, man. They've got him surrounded."
James turned on his heel and broke into a run.
Avery blinked. "Wait, Widow-what?"
"Widowfangs," the friend repeated, sprinting past her. "Greyhaven's charming local street trash."
"Of course," Avery muttered. "Nothing says 'welcome to the past' like gang violence."
She followed, because of course she did.
...
They found the scene behind an abandoned bus depot on the edge of town.
Graffiti covered the walls—fangs, claws, skulls with dripping roses. The ground was cracked concrete, littered with broken bottles and half-lit cigarettes.
A group of rough-looking teens circled two boys in the middle. One was down—bleeding, lip split. The other was shouting at them.
"You think the Widowfangs scare me?" the boy barked. "Wait until my people get here."
"Your people?" one of the thugs laughed. "Ohhh, you mean Carrington's crew? Pretty sure they wipe their ass with threats like yours."
"Say that again," the boy growled.
"Say it slower?" the thug smirked.
James didn't wait.
He barreled through the line, fists flying, knocking one guy off his feet before turning to grab his friend.
"You idiots never change," he muttered, dodging a punch.
Another thug lunged—and landed a hard blow to James's side.
Avery clenched her jaw.
He was strong. Brave. Stupidly reckless.
But getting his ass kicked all over again.
She couldn't watch this twice.
When one of the bigger guys raised a pipe and advanced, she moved.
Fast.
Her foot slammed into his ribs like a cannon, and the guy flew—crashing into a trash bin with a hollow clang.
The fight froze.
Everyone stared at her.
Even James, bloody and stunned. "What the hell…"
Avery dusted her hands and muttered, "You're welcome."
One of the boys whispered, "What is she?"
"I don't know," someone else said. "But I think I'm in love."
The original loudmouth scrambled to his feet, wild-eyed. "That's it—you're all dead. You have no idea who you're messing with. Our real crew's on their way."
A low hum buzzed in the air—motorcycles in the distance.
James turned. "Please tell me that's the cops."
"Nope," Avery said grimly, watching the headlights approach. "I'm guessing that's the 'real crew.'"
The motorcycles rolled in like a scene out of a nightmare—sleek, matte black, growling like beasts. They parked in perfect sync.
The boys who stepped off them wore matching black jackets with crimson stitching on the sleeves.
And leading them…
Ethan Carrington.
He stepped off his bike like he owned the ground, white hair catching the moonlight, black eyes scanning the scene like he was bored already.
His gaze landed on Avery.
He stopped.
His brow lifted. Just slightly. Then he smiled.
Not kindly.
Not cruelly.
Just… amused.
"Well," Ethan drawled, voice smooth as danger. "What do we have here?"
Avery's heart dropped into her stomach.
James groaned. "Of course it's him."
Ethan tilted his head and looked at her again.
"You hit Garth?" he asked, nodding to the guy wheezing into the trash bin
Avery didn't respond.
Because in that moment, something shifted.
Not just the way Ethan looked at her.
But the way everyone did.
And she knew—
Her arrival hadn't just changed the past.
It had just ignited it.