TANGLED: Crazy For You

Hazel Pov

The afternoon sun bled through the gaps in the blinds, casting long, golden stripes across the hardwood floor of my bedroom. It was that specific, heavy kind of heat that settled over the house around three o'clock, the kind that made the air feel thick and time move like molasses. I groaned, burying my face deeper into the cool side of my pillow, trying to cling to the fading edges of a dream I couldn't quite remember.

My mouth tasted like stale cotton, and my stomach gave a hollow, demanding rumble. Surrendering to the inevitable, I pushed the tangled mess of my thick red hair out of my face and sat up. I was twenty-one years old, but in the hazy aftermath of a two-hour nap, I felt entirely uncoordinated. I glanced down at my attire-a pair of faded, ridiculously short denim cut-offs and one of my brother's old, oversized navy blue polo shirts that swallowed my frame and hung halfway down my thighs. It wasn't exactly runway material, but in the sanctuary of my own home, comfort reigned supreme.

Swinging my bare feet over the edge of the mattress, I padded out of my room and into the quiet hallway. The house was usually a fortress of solitude during the day. My older brother, Leo, was my entire world and my self-appointed guardian. Ever since our parents passed away, he had taken it upon himself to dote on me, protect me, and occasionally smother me with his overbearing affection. He was the kind of brother who vetted my friends, interrogated my dates, and made sure the pantry was always stocked with my favorite snacks. I loved him fiercely for it, even if his protectiveness sometimes felt like a velvet cage.

I assumed Leo was in the parlor, probably buried in his laptop working on some architectural blueprints, which meant the kitchen was entirely mine to raid. I dragged my feet against the floorboards, the rhythmic soft thuds echoing in the stillness, my mind entirely focused on the leftover slice of cherry pie I knew was hiding behind the milk carton in the fridge.

I turned the corner into the kitchen, my eyes half-closed, a yawn stretching my jaw.

And then, I froze.

The yawn died in my throat, replaced by a sharp, icy spike of pure adrenaline. The kitchen wasn't empty.

Standing by the island counter, bathed in the harsh, unforgiving light of the overhead pendant lamp, was a man. He wasn't Leo. He was taller, broader, and radiated an energy that instantly sucked all the oxygen out of the room. He was dressed entirely in black-dark trousers that hugged lean, muscular legs, and a fitted black t-shirt that did nothing to hide the sheer power of his upper body.

But it was his arms that caught my attention first. They were a canvas of dark, intricate ink. A massive, terrifyingly detailed snake coiled around his left forearm, its scales seeming to writhe and shift as he