Now, at seventeen, Megan had embraced the moniker. She wore ink-stained jeans like a badge of honor, and her favorite hoodie—once gray, now a constellation of faded blotches—was her uniform. But the ink wasn’t just a cosmetic issue anymore. Megan had a secret.
Lucas’s face went white. He hadn’t expected it to actually work . “I—I wish for—”
Silence.
“I protected myself,” she replied. “And you. That thing wasn’t a wish-granter. Your great-grandfather just drew a nightmare and got obsessed with it. I read his notes while you weren’t looking. The ‘wish’ part? He made that up. The only thing The Hollow would have done is eat.”
“Megan Inky.”
“You tricked me,” he said.
The voice was low, amused. She turned to find Lucas Vane leaning against the doorframe. Lucas was the kind of handsome that made people use words like “chiseled” and “brooding.” He was also captain of the swim team, which meant he had no business in the art room. megan inky
He strolled in, hands in his letterman jacket pockets. “I’ve been watching you. The way your pen moves. The way you stare at your paper like it owes you money.” He stopped at her table. “I know what you can do.”
She held up her pen. The nib glinted.
“Shut up,” she said, not looking up. “You want it to work? Let me work.”