Haunted Rayne

27 | Wrath of the Skies (part 2)

Later that night, Rayne Foster awoke in a room draped in unfamiliarity, silver moonbeams filtering through sheer curtains. She blinked, her senses swimming in the muted glow. A low hum from the mini-fridge in the corner thrummed in the silence, a faint heartbeat in the otherwise deathly stillness. Her palms caressed the soft, cool threads of white bedsheets, and for a fleeting moment, she thought she might be in the infirmary. But the sterile scent of antiseptic was absent, replaced by something musky, colder—like a gust of wind rolling off snow-covered peaks.

Her head turned slowly, sluggish with confusion, her gaze latching onto a thin sliver of light leaking through a cracked door. In the shifting shadows, she caught the outline of a figure—a ripple of taut muscles under pale skin, moving with every breath. A soft rustle followed, fabric sliding over broad shoulders, and when dark hair slipped through the neckline of a T-shirt, tousled over shadowed eyes, Rayne finally realized who it was.

Mr. Matthews.

Swiftly, she turned away, heat creeping up her neck as panic set in.

What the hell? Where was she? She did not belong here—not in this room, not while he was changing his freaking clothes! Rayne tried to piece together how she'd ended up in this place, but the memories eluded her. The harder she tried, the more fragmented it all became, a disorienting blur of broken images and sensations that offered no answers.

Then the door creaked open, and his voice cut through the quiet. "You doing okay?" she heard him whisper, and his tone was casual, way too casual for the panic that gripped her.

Rayne forced herself to roll back around. He was closer now, his silhouette looming in the moonlight. He wore light sweats, and a dark tee stretched over the hard planes of his chest. His presence, though oddly comforting, also stirred a deep sense of unease within her. That square jaw, dusted with stubble, caught the fleeting light, a reminder that this was not a boy; this was a man.

"Where am I?" she asked, trying to muster an air of authority.

"You don't remember?"

She winced, realizing there was clearly something she was missing here. "I remember the doctor saying she was gonna sedate me."

"And she did. We're in my room now," he said softly. He moved to the couch, his gaze steady on her, searching. "You really don't remember?"

Rayne pressed her fingertips to her forehead, a futile attempt to coax the memories back to the surface. "I . . . I begged you?" she muttered, more to herself than him, but the words felt raw, jagged, as they left her mouth. It was all a blur.

"You did." Tension clung to his movements, a subtle shift in his posture that seemed to betray his own unease as well.

"I told you about the shadow people?"

Dorian nodded.

Rayne closed her eyes, flashes of the evening overtaking her. The taser striking Cole's spine, a trail of blood staining the school grounds, Doctor Campbell clearing her for sleep, Dorian escorting her back up to her dorm room. And then—Rayne begging him, hysterically, not to leave her alone with the shadows. The same shadows that had taken Lucas.

The memory was coming back to her now, but it didn't make any sense.

Why would she do that?

Rayne shook her head. "Everything feels . . . hazy. Like I wasn't really . . . here."

"Must be the meds," Dorian remarked.

Rayne's eyes scanned the dimly lit room, a hint of disbelief in her voice. "Is this even allowed?"