Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Ava
Secret societies have always fascinated me, especially after finding out Jackson’s family basically founded one.
And me, being seventeen from a tiny town in Missouri, I was totally swept up by Jackson’s stories about the Burning Crown.
For over a hundred years, every McKnight son has been born into it.
In his family, it’s not a choice. It’s an expectation.
We’re parked in the driveway of Rush House, and Jackson’s leaning back in his seat, one arm draped casually over the steering wheel. When he turns to look at me, my heart does a hard thump. Even after everything, he still has that effect on me.
“Go on inside,” he says. “Straight up to my room.”
With my hand on the door handle, I hesitate. “Aren’t you coming?”
Jackson drops his head and takes a heavy breath, the kind that means something’s brewing beneath the surface. “There’s someone I need to talk to. But I’ll be back before the ceremony tonight.”
I want to ask where he’s going and who he needs to see, but the questions are caught somewhere between my brain and my mouth. I swallow hard and pop the door open.
“Don’t leave my bedroom,” he warns.
I roll my eyes. “Fine, whatever.”
He doesn’t have to tell me twice. I’m still feeling the dull ache from last night’s vodka shots, and now that my stomach is full, a mid-morning nap sounds like absolute heaven.
As soon as I step out of the car, Jackson is right behind me, leaning against the hood like he’s got nowhere else to be. Except he does. He just said as much.
I spin around and shoot him a look. “I thought you were leaving.”
He nods at the security guard by the back door, a quick acknowledgment. “Just making sure you get in okay.”
I glance between him and the back door. “The house is literally twenty feet away.”
Jackson just shrugs, that infuriating half-smile playing at the corner of his lips. “A lot can happen in twenty feet.”
Shaking my head, I push out a frustrated breath. “Whatever, dude.”
When I push open the back door, the house pulses with activity.
I thought it was busy earlier today, but now, there are people everywhere.
So many people have flooded into the house, I can barely make my way across the kitchen.
I trudge up the stairs to Jackson’s room, my feet heavy.
I shut the door, twist the lock, then change into a pair of Jackson’s sweatpants before collapsing onto the bed.
The pillows are soft, and I’m out almost instantly.
Jackson
The gravel crunches beneath my tires as I approach my father’s oceanfront Malibu mansion.
The estate looms against the twilight, its stone facade a monument to generations of carefully guarded McKnight secrets.
I kill the engine and sit back against my leather seat, staring up at my father’s office window.
I haven’t spoken to him in years. I intended to make it a lifetime, but, well, here we are…
My father is exactly where I knew he’d be, seated behind the massive mahogany desk that once belonged to my grandfather.
I don’t bother to knock. I push the heavy oak door open, and my father doesn’t even look up.
A crystal tumbler of brandy sits untouched beside a stack of scrolls and manuscripts from Ancient Rome.
Laws, speeches, and treatises on strategy are scattered across the shelves, alongside more modern tomes on philosophy and warfare.
“Jackson.” He says, faintly bored, finally glancing up at me. “You’ve seen the article, I’m assuming.”
I let my gaze wander across the room, taking in the meticulous organization of centuries of history.
It’s here, among these texts, that I first fell in love with the past, with the study of power and human ambition.
This room is why I study history in school—not just for knowledge, but to understand the rules, the mistakes, and the moves that built the world we live in.
I shut the door behind me. “We need to talk.”
My father gestures to the leather chair opposite his desk. “Have a seat.”
I don’t take it. “Why didn’t you stop it?”
His brow lifts. “I assume you’re referring to the article…?”
“The Senior Council has connections everywhere,” I bite out. “Media, law enforcement, politicians…You could’ve buried it before it went live.”
“Yes. I could have.” He shrugs. “But I didn’t.
“Why the hell not?”
He reaches for the brandy, doesn’t drink, just turns the crystal slowly between his fingers. “Because, son, sometimes suppression draws more attention than silence. You should know that by now.”
I take a step closer. “I just talked to Uncle John, and thanks to your silence, the FBI is now reopening the investigation. You think that’s good for the Burning Crown? For you?”
He takes a step closer, the smell of scotch clinging to him. “The council won’t intervene without a reason. They’ll want to know what they’re protecting. Or should I say, who they’re protecting...”
“They already know.”
His eyes narrow. “Do they?”
I meet his gaze, unblinking.
“You weren’t alone that morning,” he clarifies.
The silence is heavy, but I say nothing. He watches me, waiting for a flicker of uncertainty—the tell that gives him what he wants.
“I remember her,” he adds. “You talked about her often. The girl. The estate manager’s daughter. Ava. Wasn’t that her name?”
My muscles tighten. “Don’t.”
“I warned you, Jackson. She’s not one of us. I told you she’d drag you down.”
“She didn’t drag me anywhere.”
“No?” He tilts his head, like he knows more than he’s saying. “Then why are you so desperate to keep her name out of this?”
I take a step toward him, my pulse pounding. “Because I know, if given the chance, you’ll use her.”
“Obviously,” he says, like it’s the most reasonable thing in the world. “She was there that morning. We can make her presence useful. Redirect the FBI. Protect you, and by extension, the Crown.”
“You mean sacrifice her.”
He doesn’t even flinch. “You can’t save everyone. The organization survives on strategy, not sentiment. If you’re willing to give an official statement implicating the girl, the council will make this disappear. Clean. Efficient.”
“Fuck. You.”
“Son.” His mask slips, revealing the machinery beneath the calm. “The girl has no power, no family name, no influence. The Burning Crown owes her nothing. She’s expendable. That’s what you need to understand.”
“She’s not your fucking solution.”
“She’s beneath you,” he says, voice hardening. “Always has been. She’s the help, Jackson. Don’t rewrite history. You could have had anyone, and you chose a girl who could never understand what you are.”
I take a menacing step closer. “She’s the only person who’s ever made me feel human.”
“Being human is overrated.” For a heartbeat, the words hang between us.
Then he exhales, slow, disappointed. He walks back to his desk, the conversation already over for him.
“Think about my offer. If you want this cleaned up, I’ll need a statement.
The council meets again in a week. After that, the window closes. ”
I turn and walk out without another word.
Outside, the night air hits like a slap, cold wind cutting through my T-shirt. My pulse pounds in my throat. He’ll never see Ava as anything more than dirt on the soles of my shoes. But she’s the reason I’m still breathing.
As I pull out of the driveway, the portraits of McKnight men watch from the windows—centuries of men who traded their humanity for power.
Power first. Humanity last.
Fuck that.
He thinks I’ll bend, that I’ll let him decide who’s worth saving. But there’s more than one way to make someone untouchable.
And by tomorrow, no one will ever question who Ava belongs to again.