Page 24 of Burn it Down

I cross the backyard to the shed and grab two old cans of varnish. The kind that smells like heat before it ignites.

When I return, our father is slumped unconscious on the floor. Riven looks up at me, panting, blood on his hands.

I don’t say anything, because there’s nothing I need to tell him. Instead, I hold up the cans of varnish, silently telling him my plan.

Riven looks at me, chest rising fast, his eyes wild and dilated. He smirks when he registers that I want to burn this place to the ground before he tells me, "That’s my good girl."

I start pouring and he doesn’t hesitate. Riven grabs the second can and follows me. Room by room, we baptize the house in flammable liquid. The rugs, the bedposts, the cracked photo frames.

We pass the staircase, and I pause. There’s a framed photo of us from that first year. I’m sixteen. Riven is seventeen. We’re standing on opposite sides of the porch, but even in the image, we’re turned slightly toward each other. Like gravity was always pulling us together. I take the frame down, hurl it to the floor, and feel the sharp thrill as the glass shatters. I reach down and grab the photo, a memento I want to keep from our past.

Riven doesn’t ask if I’m ready, he’s watching me intently, waiting for my cue.

I look at him expectantly, and he hands me a book of matches from his back pocket. I waste no time before I strike the match. The fire catches like it’s been waiting for this moment too.

It spreads fast. The varnish feeds it like kindling. The flames roar like they’re alive. I step back, watching the curtains blacken and peel.

I imagine the house breathing its final breath.

“What now?” I ask, breath shallow.

Riven stares into the flames for a moment and then he turns to me.

“We disappear,” he tells me before posing a question. “Do you trust me?”

I don’t hesitate. “Yes.”

He smiles at me, and Riven hardly ever smiles.

It’s a special fucking moment, and I think in many years from now, I’ll still remember this moment and how he looked.

Riven grabs my hand and leads me out of the house, but he pauses when we reach the front porch. His hand moves to my jaw and then he kisses me.

Our first kiss is not gentle. It’s not soft. It’s everything we’ve never said, poured into every brush of his lips. My fingers curl into his jacket. His hand slides around to the small of my back, dragging me closer, and I feel the firm pressure of his palm flattening between my shoulder blades.

His other hand curves over my breast, thumb brushing against the swell like he’s trying to memorize the shape. I gasp against his mouth.

Riven groans, deep and guttural, and his lips trail from my mouth to my neck. He sucks hard, claiming the skin just below my jawline, and I shudder. My legs tremble, and he catches me effortlessly, hoisting me up until I’m wrapped around his waist.

He presses me back against the porch post, grinding into me just once enough to let me feel exactly how hard he is for me.

Then he stops.

Breathless. Groaning. Furious with himself.

“I’m not about to fuck you for the first time like this,” he says, forehead pressed to mine. "Not like this. Not while the world’s burning behind us."

He kisses me one last time, slower this time. More reverent.

Then he sets me down gently, brushing his hands along my sides as he exhales. When we finally break apart, he’s panting.

“I’ve needed to do that for so long,” he murmurs. Then he kisses me again, groaning against my mouth.

I feel like I could cry, but I don’t. I just clutch his coat and let the world melt around us. I’m about to lean up for another kiss, but then I hear the fire truck sirens. They’re still in the distance, but getting closer.

I pull back, breathless. “Riven…”

He doesn’t speak. Just scoops me up and throws me over his shoulder like I weigh nothing at all to him.

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