Page 35 of Through the Flames
The digital takedown was performing just as expected — flawlessly and, most importantly, untraceable.
The exposure of Sierra’s old sorority had gone viral. Screenshots, statements and transactions were all over social media.
Satisfied, I was watching it unfold when my phone buzzed in my hand.
Her name popped up, and my thumb froze over the screen.
My heart didn’t just skip a beat, it fucking detonated, then reset at a faster pace. My fingers clenched around the device, knuckles whitening.
Her message was short, yet I reread it.Twice.
Ella: You’re a menace.
Tucking my tongue into my cheek, I was biting back a smile. She soundedamused. Maybe even impressed?
But that might’ve been wishful thinking on my part.
I wanted her to say it again. Say it like she meant it. Say it with her fucking mouth against mine.
Hunter: You’re welcome.
Hunter: I’ll let you know when it’s time to pay up.
Smug satisfaction bloomed beneath my skin, not just because I succeeded, but because she came to me.Again.
I was unraveling her, thread by thread, and she didn’t even notice how tangled she’d become.
My jaw flexed, my leg bouncing under the desktop, too keyed up to sit still.
Ella thought I was a menace? Cute. If she thought this was me at my worst, she hadn’t seen shit yet.
You’re calling the wolf to the door and acting surprised when it shows teeth, babe.
I’d be whatever she needed me to be. The villain, the weapon, the sin she kept crawling back to.
Eleven
Ella
The Bear Lodgesounded pretty cozy in theory — a cute little café sitting just off the quad with lots of natural wood to give it a rustic vibe — but in practice, it was absolutely chaotic.
Scents of espresso, melted cheese, and the faint stress of midterms permeated the air. Music played overhead, a rotating mix of indie rock and early 2010s bangers that someone (me) was definitely still nostalgic for.
The seating area was a chaotic mix of mismatched tables, high stools and deep, reclining chairs.
Old-school chalkboards listed drink specials like “Crippling Anxiety Latte” and “Finals Fuel Cold Brew.”
Yes, I enjoyed the little cringe people gave when they had to actually say those.
Yes, I took even greater pleasure in acting like I didn’t know what they were talking about when they tried to shorten or describe it instead.
Flyers covered the walls: tutoring ads, roommate requests (which have never helpedmeeven in the slightest), and clubmeeting times. At least three of them featured poor graphic design and a faulty QR code.
I’d checked.
Students in sweats and backpacks were camped around the café, some of them spending hours with one drink and a guilt-stained pastry.
As it turned out, my inability to keep my mouth shut and my ability to get along with just about anyone, plus being kick-ass at balancing things on a tray, made me a reasonably good waitress.
