Page 103 of Through the Flames
Hunter’s stare sharpened as he locked onto Dom like a sniper’s scope. “Always.”
Dom blinked, just for a moment. Then he grinned again, as though he hadn’t just been pinned by something capable of making even me shiver. “Cool. Cool. Love the enthusiasm.”
He clapped his hands together, oblivious to the tension that was almost tangible. “Anyway! Game night? I brought chips. Don’t worry, I’ll just ignore the weird eye-fucking thing you two have going on.”
“DOM!” I yelped, my face burning.
“Relax, sis. I’m just saying…” His grin widened at Hunter. “You hurt her, I hurt you. Cool? Cool.”
Hunter didn’t react outwardly. But when his gaze slid to me, slow and scorching, it was like a hand tightening around my throat.
Twenty Eight
Hunter
The barbell hovered above my chest, heavy enough to crush a weaker man. My arms shook, veins bulging, lungs screaming for air. I pushed anyway.
One more rep. For her.
Her name beat in time with my pulse.
Ella. Ella. Ella.
Every lift, every slam of iron, wasn’t punishment. It was a promise to her, to our future. I was training to be the thing capable of breaking whoever needed to be broken.
She was mine. Not a possession, but rather, something I wanted to keep safe, at any cost, and I was going to make damn sure nobody would ever make her doubt it.
The bar clanged against the rack as I finished the set, sweat dripping down my jaw, soaking into the mat. My chest heaved, but all I could see was her. Those fucking eyes. That mouth.
She’d told me the truth because she finally trusted me enough to open up. This moment was burned into my brain, etched into my skull, and carved into my heart.
Hearing it from her had made it real, though. It had made it personal in a way that simply reading about it never could.
After she fell asleep last night, I sat with this truth like a live coal. It didn’t burn me; it fueled my plan.
I compiled every piece of evidence I could find of her humiliation: cached posts, archived screenshots, and old comment threads that had been circulated and mocked by men who thought anonymity meant they could say whatever the fuck they wanted.
I didn’t fabricate anything. All I did was organize what already existed into a map: who posted, who forwarded, who laughed, and who saved.
The group chats were ugly, small-minded, and consistently malicious — a carousel of boys sharing links and creating a private space for their cruelty.
Small towns like that thrived on conveniences like reputations, shared lies, and turning a blind eye. If you pulled at one thread, the whole thing came undone.
I started with thread pulls and notes, the kind of meticulous preparation I do when I want results, not theater.
Collecting names, screenshots, and timestamps, I labeled folders with the cold efficiency of someone who doesn’t want to be interrupted when the plan begins to unfold.
I didn’t want to ruin lives.Not yet, at least.
For now, I was going for discomfort.
I wanted the men who treated her like an object to experience the small collapse of convenience: a missed shift, an awkward meeting, a sponsor asking a question, a pastor clearing his throat and hearing things he’d rather not.
I wanted to show the lovely people of Briar Creek how messy the truth can be when dragged into the light. Wanted them to wake up to consequences that were legal, traceable, and public enough to stop the easy laughs.
So I set a dozen small things in motion. Firstly, I prepared packets — clean, factual,ugly— and directed them into inboxes and hands not likely to sweep them under the rug.
I sent copies to employers with attention-grabbing subject lines and forwarded messages to wives and partners with highlighted dates.
