Emily Winters stood in front of her bedroom mirror, a fluffy white towel wrapped around her torso, as she tried to work a tangle from her dark, dripping hair.
The room was quiet, except for the radiator next to her closet—it made its trademark ticking sound, one that had kept her awake as a child. She always imagined an old witch trying to claw her way out of the wall. But she was used to it by now. Just like the tiny mole above her right eyebrow—she’d had it since birth, and the only time she ever noticed it was when someone else commented on it.
Someone like Zach McCord, for...