Page 133 of Through the Flames
His eyes were wild and feral, like an uncontrollable storm I couldn’t calm but couldn’t look away from.
“Your call,” he said in a low, dangerous voice. “Do you want me to finish this, or do you want the last word?”
The whole room held its breath.
I was still shaking, but something in me steadied. His fury wasn’t directed at me, it wasforme, wrapping around me like armor.
Only when I stepped forward into Hunter’s warmth did I find my voice.
“I left this town and I fucking moved on. But you’re still here. Still whispering about high school. Tell me who really lost,” I said, every syllable as sharp as glass. “You don’t define me. You never did. Not then, not now, not ever.”
This time, no one laughed. Not a single person dared to breathe, and, for the first time in way,waytoo long, I felt the shame slide from my shoulders and land where it belonged — on theirs.
I turned on my heel, chin high, and walked out.
Hunter followed, close enough for his hand to brush my back. A claim, a promise, and a warning all wrapped in one.
The night air outside was heavy with honeysuckle, but it didn’t clear the taste of acid from my mouth. My hands were still shaking, but I could feel Hunter standing behind me, vibrating like a live wire, his fists flexing and his chest heaving.
I slid my hand onto his arm, grounding both of us.
He didn’t speak, but he didn’t need to. I knew.
If I hadn’t touched him, if I hadn’t asked, he wouldn’t have stopped at bruises. He would’ve crossed every line to make sure I got my closure.
Thirty Nine
Hunter
I couldn’t unclench my fists.
The steering wheel creaked under my grip, the leather threatening to split. I hadn’t spoken since we left the diner because I didn’t trust my voice not to shake apart with the rage still burning a hole in me.
Those pathetic little motherfuckers. The way they’d boxed her in, the way their voices had dragged her back to a place I knew she never really escaped.
I should’ve broken them. Cracked ribs, shattered teeth. Left a warning written on their bodies so no one in this town would ever dare breathe her name again.
The only reason they were still breathing was her hand on my arm, her voice cutting through the haze.
Hunter, please.
She didn’t even know how close I’d been. How much it had cost to stop.
Her hand was still on my thigh now, small and warm. It wasn’t shaking anymore, and she left it there like she was the one steadying me.
And maybe she was.
We turned off the main road onto a narrow lane lined with sagging mailboxes and overgrown ditches. Pine trees leaned in on both sides, and cicadas screamed in the branches.
Somewhere in the dark, a dog barked. The headlights illuminated a porch swing swaying in the breeze and a rusting tractor in a field.
In her world, warmth didn’t feel forced. Instead of echoing off cold marble walls, laughter filled the cozy confines of her home. It was filled with the smells of home-cooked meals and polished wood, and its worn floors had carried generations of her family.
Mine had been different. It had expensive finishes, sprawling rooms and empty halls filled with silence so thick and heavy it crushed your chest.
Money? Sure. Plenty of it.
But no one to come home to, no hugs, no voices making you feel seen. Just cold light and colder people — at least after Mom died.
