Chapter Six #2
Rowan clears his throat, the sound rough, like gravel dragged across stone, and it pulls both Emerson and me from our spiraling thoughts.
He straightens, shoulders squared, his expression carved from something harder than grief.
When he speaks, his voice is steady in a way mine isn’t, each word carrying the weight of finality.
“We’re going to the fallout house,” he says, naming the property we bought years ago under another name, buried in layers of false paperwork and silent promises.
A ghost house. A place we kept off the grid, untouchable, untraceable.
Insurance for the day when the ground under us gave way completely.
The day none of us wanted to admit might come—but all of us knew would.
The words settle into the room like a verdict, and I feel something in my chest shift.
Not relief, not exactly, but direction. A way forward through the wreckage.
I nod, the movement slow but deliberate, my chest weighted by what we’re leaving behind—and what we’re about to become. “Then that’s where we go.”
We don’t linger. There’s no reason to. The halls that once carried our footsteps feel like hollow veins now, pulsing with decay instead of life.
With every stride, I trail lighter fluid across the carpet, splashing it over door frames and down the stairs, painting the house in accelerant like a priest anointing the damned.
Neither of my brothers asks where I got it, and it’s probably better that way. Some things are easier left unspoken.
We pass the rooms that raised us, but none of us look inside.
We don’t let our gazes linger on the walls that watched us laugh as kids, watched us bleed as teens, and finally, watched us break as adults.
There’s no point. Those rooms don’t hold memories anymore; they hold graves.
Every corner is thick with ghosts, every floorboard groaning under the weight of the sins committed here.
This house isn’t home. It’s a coffin. One we’ve been tricked into sleeping in, waiting for the lid to close.
When we step outside, the air cuts like glass, sharp and biting, but it’s the cleanest thing I’ve breathed in years.
Cold freedom, fresh and untainted, compared to the stench that seeped into our skin inside those walls.
We stand there for only a second, silent but bound together, the three of us carrying the same fire in our veins. Not grief. No hesitation. Just purpose.
We don’t look back. Not once. Instead, I let the lighter kiss the trail we left behind, sparks catching like whispers before roaring into something bigger.
Flames lick at the windows almost instantly, greedy and alive, climbing faster than the memories ever could.
The house crackles and groans as smoke rises, a dark pillar marking the death of what we once thought we were.
As we walk away, side by side, I already taste the smoke on my tongue—not just destruction, but rebirth. This isn’t an ending. It’s the first step into something new. Something ruthless. Something ours.
And I want my Pixie to see this—to feel it in her bones and know exactly who set the world on fire for her.
My fingers itch with the need to reach her, to let her know she’s not alone in this war anymore.
Pulling my phone from my pocket, I stare at the screen for a beat, the glow illuminating the raw edges of my thoughts.
My chest hammers with something wild and unrelenting, a mix of fury and fragile hope twisting together until I can barely breathe.
Without giving myself another second to hesitate, I pull up Reign’s old number—the one Berk still clings to—and start typing the message.
Send me your number, baby. The guys and I have got a present for you.
The words look sharp on the screen, taunting, carrying more weight than they should. A promise. Proof that I’m not fucking around.
I hit send without hesitation, my thumb firm on the screen, imagining her expression when she reads it.
Maybe she’ll roll her eyes, maybe she’ll curse me for being reckless.
But underneath it, she’ll know. She’ll know this is for her.
The flames, the ashes, the break from the chains that held us.
All of it—every step, every cut, every drop of blood spilled—is for her.
My Pixie. My girl. My vengeance wrapped in lace and steel. And tonight, I want her to see that we’re finally doing what we should have done years ago—burning it all to the ground.
By the time Berkley’s number lights up my screen, the house behind us is already an all-consuming blaze, the flames roaring so loud it feels like the earth itself is screaming.
Fire devours every board, every rafter, every secret soaked into those walls, clawing its way into the night sky as though it wants to set the stars themselves on fire.
The heat presses against my spine in waves, a living, breathing thing that licks at the edges of my skin, daring me to turn back, daring me to look at what we’ve destroyed.
Sparks ride the smoke like fireflies, drifting upward before vanishing into the dark.
I don’t look back. I don’t need to. The smirk pulling at my lips is enough to tell me everything I need to know; we did it.
We cut the cord. We burned the coffin they wanted to bury us in.
And the timing couldn’t be sweeter—her number flashing at the exact moment our past turns to ash.
She answered me. Faster than I expected.
Faster than I deserved. That single reply is a lifeline wrapped in barbed wire, and I grip it tight.
Proof that this is only the beginning.
I click her number without hesitation, my thumb moving faster than my brain can process, pulse thundering so loud it drowns out even the roar of the fire.
The camera opens, and I adjust the angle with deliberate precision, making sure the inferno eats up the frame, the house outlined in its own funeral.
Flames lick at the night sky, spitting sparks that shower down like dying stars, and the glow swallows us whole.
I tilt the shot to catch Rowan and Emerson just behind me.
They look unreal in the firelight, their faces carved in shifting shadows and molten orange, like avenging spirits crawling up from hell itself to collect what’s owed.
Rowan’s jaw is tight, his eyes hollow but burning with purpose.
Emerson looks older than I’ve ever seen him, grief and rage etched deep, his silhouette hard and unyielding against the blaze.
Together, we look less like brothers and more like executioners waiting for the guilty to line up.
The crackle of burning wood is relentless, snapping and groaning as beams collapse inside the house.
It’s a sound that fills the silence like a battle drum, an anthem of destruction, and I let it bleed into the recording.
Every pop, every hiss, every collapse of charred timber becomes part of the message.
I want her to hear it as clearly as she sees it.
I want her to feel it—the destruction, the ending, the promise of what comes next.
With the flames at my back and vengeance in my veins, I hit record, ready to send her proof that this is no longer just talk. This is war. And we’re all in.
“Pixie,” I murmur into the lens, the word dragging out of me like a vow, my voice low, steady, anchored in every ounce of truth I have left.
It’s not just her name—it’s a promise. A warning.
A plea. I hold the phone steady for a beat, letting the firelight frame my face, the blaze behind me proof of what we’ve already burned away.
Then I tip the camera toward my brothers.
Rowan steps forward first. His shoulders squared, but I can see the tremor in his hands, the weight dragging at his chest. His voice comes out rough, scraped raw from shouting and guilt, each syllable heavy like stone.
“Berk… I don’t expect forgiveness. Not for what I did.
Not for what I let happen. But I swear to you, I’ll never raise my hand against you again.
Never. I’ll use these hands to fight for you instead—to kill for you.
You’ll never bleed because of me again. I’ll spend the rest of my life proving that.
” His throat works as if he’s swallowing glass, and the silence after his words says more than anything else could.
Then, Emerson steps into frame, firelight catching the wet shine in his eyes before he blinks it away.
His voice is quieter, but no less sharp, his tone carrying that rare steel he only uses when it matters most. “You deserved better than me, better than all of us. I see that now. I’m sorry I didn’t fight harder; sorry I let myself believe lies because it was easier than facing the truth.
But I won’t make that mistake again. I’ll fight every day, giving all I have, to earn back even a fraction of your trust. Even if it takes the rest of my life.
I’ll prove we’re not them. I’ll prove we can be the men you deserve at your side. ”
I steady the phone one last time; the blaze roaring behind me like a demon set free, flames painting my face in shifting reds and golds. My pulse pounds so hard it feels like the words are etched into my bloodstream before I speak them.