Page 24 of Chasing the Flame
Fucker knows better than to try something, so when he finally stands up, I clasp his forearm, rubbing salt into the wound with my next sentence. “I’m glad we understand one another.”
He narrows his eyes at me, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you just challenged the future leader of Blackthorne Covenant…but, like you said. You don’t want it, so clearly, this littlemisunderstandingcan stay between us,right?”
Oh, how wrong you are, Luke. Letting the unhinged grin I’ve been holding onto slide into place might just be the cherry on top of an otherwise already perfect evening. Luke’s expression falters, and another flicker of fear occurs. Then, his mask slides back into place.
He tries poorly to exude confidence, “I’m glad we got this straightened out, it’s not a good look for the family to squabble. Your father won’t be happy to hear about this.”
I smirk, knowing damn well that my dad will be happy that I stood up to Luke, no matter if I’ve painted a target on my back in the process. My only hope is that things calm down where Averie’s concerned, and that I didn’t just make everything so much worse for her. I meant every fucking word I said.
I’ll challenge Luke and the entire fucking circle if I have to.
There’s a great satisfaction in how I feel when words are put to paper, or in this case, typed in a good ol’ document on my computer. I like knowing I’ve accomplished something, even if it’s only one new chapter or several hundred words. Even if I have been overly distracted today, I’ve gotten a lot done.
Progress is progress, or at least that’s what my mom always says.
Thinking of my mother sends another swirl of guilt rolling through my belly. I’ve not spoken to her in almost a week, blaming it on my PA and her incessant back-and-forth over the novel I’m trying to sell. I’ve lied more times than I care to admit, but I can’t handle her questioning right now. Not when I know things are only calm because Luke has his hands full at work. Or at least, that’s the story he’s telling.
I haven’t quite figured out what happened the night Luke and Jettson went for a joy ride down to Lake Superior. Neither of them was saying much when they got back, and I haven’t spoken to Jettson—aside from stiff morning pleasantries—since that night.
That night everything changed.
Jettson has poured himself into finishing the outside renovations—like staying busy might keep the memory of that night from catching up to him.
It’s been another long week of silence between us after I made a fool of myself on the beach, and since they took that joy ride. Jettson finished the siding yesterday and moved to painting any white-colored paint he could find outside the house. After his careful work, the house looks magnificent. Finally, like the gothic home of my dreams.
Jettson has worked like a man possessed, determined to make this everything that I could’ve hoped for. I know soon he will have to move into the house and start work on some of the custom furniture pieces I requested. Matt will also begin the painstaking job of painting every room to meet my vision for the house.
I’ve chosen a palette of greens, black, and gray, and painstakingly chosen metalwork to match each room. I still need to decide on the theme for the smaller bathroom upstairs and figure out what we need to do to get the one in the main bedroom working again. When we bought the house, Luke seemed sure that it was minor plumbing issues. I’d hate for him to be proven wrong, but we need to have Jettson’s crew look at it, or at the very least let Jettson bring in plumbers.
Between that and the custom furniture I’m having Jettson design for the kitchen, he’s probably just swamped. But I can’t shake the feeling that he’s avoiding me.
“Probably because you were a crying, sobbing mess, Averie Marie Blackthorne,” I say aloud, berating myself for showing a moment of weakness. Shaking my head, I slide the laptop shut, turn off the mouse, and pull my earbuds out—and instantly, my blood goes cold.
I can hear sounds of shuffling and shifting upstairs, like something is being dragged across the floor. My heart starts thumping wildly, and my stomach does little flip-flops, like butterflies swirling around. No one should be in the house except me, and that thought alone has me sneaking out of my office straight to the kitchen knives I’d just unboxed this morning.
The dark wood handle gleams, and the gray galvanized steel is ridged in an intricate pattern, its sharp edge glinting in the waning sunlight. My hand grips the handle, holding the knife away from me as I pass back under the arch in the kitchen and pad toward the stairs in the living room.
Gripping the knife handle tightly in one hand and grabbing the banister with my other, I begin my ascent up the stairs to the second floor of our home. I never come up here, not after what happened, but today? Fuck the rules. The shuffling sound is louder now, coming directly from a cracked-open door at the end of the hall.
With every step I take, my heart pounds even harder. Anticipation is building, shooting adrenaline through my body at warp speed. My breaths turn shallow, my palms sweat, and I nearly jump out of my skin whenever I hear movement.
What the fuck is going on?
When I reach the door, I stall, my breath catching as a wave of dizziness threatens to bowl me over. Pressing my back against the door, I nudge it open, grimacing when it squeals. Upon first glance, the room is empty. Antique furniture litters the room, white curtains hang to my left, and as I scan my surroundings, nothing seems or feels amiss.
The temperature drops as I move into the room, and my teeth chatter at the sudden chill. The hair on my body stands up, this energy intensifying and electric as it coils through me.
There’s a feeling of wrongness I can’t put my finger on. I’m on high alert as I step further and further into the room, brandishing my knife like a lunatic. Then, on my right, a flutter of movement catches my attention again.
Another chill skates down my spine, my gaze connecting with a bookshelf on the far right wall. There, pretty as you please, is ahandprint in the middle of the dust-covered shelf. The fear hits first—loud, fast, relentless—but it's the need to know that roots me in place.
Even though a part of me lives for this kind of shit, another part whispers the truth—evil does go bump in the night, and someone very real might be hiding in this room.
I’m sure I look fucking ridiculous, holding the knife high above my head, poised and ready for the kill. My heart’s pumping wildly, my eyes glued to the spot on the bookshelf. Then…the blasted thumping sound resumes.
I flinch so hard it feels like my soul is trying to escape my body.
I’m fucking panicking at this point, convinced that the next thing I hear is going to send me over the edge. Inch by agonizing inch, I make my way toward it. Apprehension fills me to the brim, but I reach out my free hand anyway, feeling along the edges of the bookshelf.
