CHAPTER ONE

The alarm blared like a siren, shrill and relentless. I groaned, rolled over, and reached out to silence the frustrating son of a b***h—but instead of hitting the snooze button, I knocked it clean off my nightstand.

Crash.

So much for sleeping in. And I knew I wouldn’t hear the end of it.

"I'm up, I'm up!" I shouted, throwing my hands in the air just as my brother barged into my room like he owned the place.

"Mistress Destroyer strikes again," Lex said with a smirk, nodding toward the fallen alarm clock.

Thankfully, it was made of some indestructible plastic and survived the fall. I glared at him.

"You didn’t knock, Lex!" I snapped. "I could’ve been naked!"

He just grinned and ducked as I hurled a pillow at him. It missed, of course. He was already crouched, helping me retrieve the alarm clock.

That’s Lex for you. Annoying, nosy, but a good brother. The kind of guy who’d tease you one second and help you clean up your mess the next.

My name is Lexi Smith. I’m almost eighteen. Actually, we’re almost eighteen—Lex and I are twins. Fraternal, not identical, but close enough that people still mix us up sometimes. We’ve lived in Washington, D.C. for most of our lives, but soon we’re moving to Louisiana. Mom landed a job at a fancy hospital down there, and apparently, it’s a big deal.

I’m pretty ordinary, I guess. Tall, slim, with hips and an average bust. My hair’s auburn—most of the time. I might dye it soon. Louisiana feels like the kind of place where you reinvent yourself. My eyes are green, which is rare in our family; Mom’s are blue. Lex’s too. I didn’t mention my dad—he died when I was four. All I have are a few blurry memories and some photos. His eyes looked hazel, maybe brown.

Growing up, I was the quiet twin. Lex was the heartthrob—girls had been crushing on him since middle school. But he’s not a player. He’s sweet. And yeah, I’m beautiful too. We’re twins, after all—almost identical, except for our eyes and, well, gender.

Middle school was rough. I was a late bloomer, desperate to fit in. One time, I nearly died trying. It’s not something I talk about often. When I came back—miraculously alive—with a strange mark on my neck, I knew I’d never fit in. So I stopped trying.

By high school, I’d bloomed. But I didn’t care about popularity anymore. I liked being different. It felt... freeing. I found my rhythm outside the box, and I stuck to it.

Everything changed after summer camp three years ago. I was sixteen. There was an accident—I don’t remember much. One of the teachers saved me. I woke up in the hospital with a strawberry-colored scar on my neck. Or maybe it was a mark. I still don’t know. It didn’t look like a burn or a cut. It was too perfect, too symmetrical. Like something had been placed there deliberately.

I refused surgery. I let it heal naturally. Eventually, it became part of my style. I started wearing scarves—colorful, patterned, dramatic. It was my thing. Only family and a few close friends have ever seen the mark.

I shook off the memory and got out of bed. Lex stayed behind, grumbling about the mess and tidying up like the neat freak he is.

Downstairs, the smell hit me like a warm hug—Mom’s famous bacon and cheese sandwich. My favorite breakfast. Sometimes lunch too, because cafeteria food is trash.

"Hi, Mom," I said, hopping onto a kitchen stool.

Our house was a modest five-bedroom duplex. Just the three of us. Mom could afford it thanks to her job, which was about to get even fancier in Louisiana.

"Hi, hun. Sleep okay?" she asked, her Southern accent wrapping around the words like honey.

Right—Mom’s from Texas. She fell in love with a professional surfer. They got married, but he died six years later. No fairy tale ending. She never remarried. Said she didn’t need to. Said Lex and I were enough.

I wish I had her accent. I try sometimes, but I just can’t pull it off.

"Yeah," I drawled, kissing her cheek. She laughed. I failed the accent test again.

"Ready for school, young lady?" she asked, swatting my hand away from the cookie jar.

"I’ll be done in twenty minutes!" I yelled, sprinting upstairs.

"Thank you for your time, missus," she called after me. I could practically hear her shaking her head—so unladylike, she’d say.

I was already dressed in black jeans, Doc Martens, and a white cashmere sweater. My messy bun was in place, lashes curled, lips painted pink. All in under twenty minutes.

Record-breaker.

"Mom! I can’t find my purple scarf!" I shouted. It was my signature piece—the one that matched my boots and made my green eyes pop.

"Ask Lex," Mom replied. "He’s the one always rearranging your room."

"Lex!" I called again.

He strolled in, smug. "I’m not telling. You should go without it. Your mark is beautiful, Lex."

He’s the only one allowed to call me Lex. It’s a twin thing. I call him Lex. He calls me Lex. Everyone else calls him Lex or Alex—but only he calls me Lex. To the world, I’m Lexi.

"You know I’m not comfortable showing it," I said. The mark had become part of me, but that didn’t mean I wanted it on display.

"Does it still burn? Did you have another nightmare?" he asked.

That’s Lex. Always caring. We tell each other everything. No secrets.

The nightmares started this year. I never remember them. But lately, the mark has started to sting again. Sometimes it feels like it’s pulsing. Like it’s alive.

I didn’t answer him. I just stared at the mirror, at the faint outline of the mark beneath my sweater. It was darker today. More vivid. Almost... red.

Lex noticed too. He stepped closer, his voice low. "Lexi, it’s changing."

I swallowed hard. "I know."

We stood there in silence. The air felt heavier. Like something was coming. Something we couldn’t stop.

And then, for the first time ever, the mark glowed.

A soft, crimson light pulsed beneath my skin—slow, steady, like a heartbeat.

Lex stepped back. "Did you feel that?"

I nodded. My voice was barely a whisper. "It’s starting again."