Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Shae
The light in this valley makes everything look dipped in sepia—golden, washed, like a memory you don’t quite trust. The kind of light that makes secrets feel romantic instead of grotesque.
Blake says he loves it here.
He stands barefoot in my kitchen, making coffee like he’s been living with me for years instead of three days. Tattoos peek from beneath his rolled sleeves. The film camera slung over his shoulder—his third limb—catches the morning sun.
“You’re quiet today,” he says.
I shrug, biting into a slice of apple I cut mostly for the optics. “Just soaking it all in. The quaint. The wholesome. Dawn Bergstrom from Hearth & Hands told me I’m a ‘beacon of hope.’” I roll my eyes. “I almost gagged on the granola bar she handed me.”
Blake grins, pouring coffee into the chipped blue mug I’ve started to think of as mine. “You’re a regular Hallmark movie now. Just missing the flannel-wearing carpenter who teaches you how to feel again.”
I smirk. “I already killed him.”
He barks a laugh. “Fair.”
That’s what I like about Blake—he doesn’t flinch when I say things like that. He doesn’t tiptoe around the truth the way everyone else does, like the monster is sleeping and we might wake her.
He already knows she’s awake.
And he doesn’t mind.
He joins me on the couch, sets his mug down, and angles the camera on the coffee table so it frames us both. “Ready for today’s interview?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Nope.”
I cross my legs, lean back, let my robe slip just far enough off one shoulder to blur the line between documentary and foreplay. “Then ask your first question, documentary boy.”
He clicks record. “Tell me what it feels like to be free.”
God. Free. A word people use like it fixes things.
I tilt my head and give the camera my best thoughtful-heroine expression. “Freedom is just another kind of performance. I’m still acting. The script just changed.”
Blake nods slowly, but I can see it—the hunger behind his eyes. He likes it when I talk like this. When I lift the edge of the curtain and let the dark breathe. Not all the way. Just enough to make him lean in.
“And what about the messages?” he asks, quieter now.
My jaw ticks.
Because that part isn’t for camera.
They started two weeks after I got out. First, an email—no subject, no signature. One line.
I know what you did to Brianna.
Then a package. No return address. Inside: a child’s necklace. Pink. Plastic. The claw-machine kind.
Like the one Sophie wore when she was little.
I lean forward and trace the rim of my mug, buying myself a second. “People get jealous,” I say lightly. “They don’t like it when you survive the fire and come out looking prettier.”
“That necklace,” Blake says. “It was hers, wasn’t it?”
I still.
Not for long.
“Whose?” I ask, smiling like I’m amused.
“Sophie’s.”
A soft laugh slips out. I shake my head. “You watch the show too much.”
He doesn’t smile back.
The silence stretches—thin, sharp.
“I’ll find out who sent it,” he says. “I promise.”
Something in his voice is different. Not concern. Not curiosity.
Fierce. Protective. Possessive.
And fuck if that doesn’t feel better than safety ever has.
“You don’t have to,” I say quickly. “I have enemies—” Dean, Isaac, Kelly, dear old Dad. I wouldn’t even put it past Bishop to circle back for an encore.
“I want to.” His eyes hold mine. For once, I don’t look away first. Then, like he’s asking what I want for lunch, he says, “Let me take care of you.”
I blink.
Because no one’s ever said that and meant it.
Not Dean, who wanted a polished wife to parade. He mistook my silence for forgiveness. Rookie mistake.
Not Isaac, who wanted an escape from his beige little life.
Not Taylor, who wanted vulnerability without the mess.
And certainly not Kelly—who should’ve said it the day she left me with that bastard of a father.
“I’m not a stray,” I say, even as something in me wants to curl into his warmth and let him pretend I’m worth saving.
“I know exactly what you are,” he murmurs, leaning in. “That’s why I like you.”
My pulse kicks hard.
He sees it. He knows it.
And still—still—he touches my face like it’s sacred instead of stained.
He pulls me up, hands framing my jaw, and kisses me with gentle intention—like tenderness is a choice he’s making on purpose. Then he guides me toward the bathroom. Hot water hisses. Steam blooms across the mirror like breath on glass.
He steps into the shower first, then holds the curtain open for me.
I pause. “This is… intimate.”
He arches a brow. “Terrifying, huh?”
“I don’t do tender.”
“I’m not asking for tender,” he says, tugging me in.
The water scalds in the best way.
He wraps his arms around me, presses his forehead to mine, and whispers, “Let’s just run. Get married. Blow this all up.”
I laugh—sharp in the small space. “Excuse me?”
“Think about it,” he says. “You and me. Fuck the world. Modern-day Bonnie and Clyde. Except smarter. Richer. Hotter.”
“And way less dead.”
“Exactly.”
I want to laugh again, but something about the way he says it doesn’t feel like a joke.
His hand slides down my spine, settles on my hip. “You think I’m kidding,” he says.
I look up at him. “Aren’t you?”
He answers with a kiss—hot, hard, consuming—and I realize I don’t care if he’s joking.
Because the idea of someone fully in on the lie, someone who sees the beast and feeds it, that’s the closest I’ve ever been to turned on.
“Say yes,” he murmurs against my mouth.
“To the fake proposal or the life of crime?”
He smirks. “Why not both?”
And right there, with steam in my lungs and his hands on me, something terrifying sparks.
Not fear.
Not guilt.
Desire.
To say yes. To make it real. To burn the world down with someone who’ll fan the flames.
“What about Evelyn?” I ask, because I need a reason to breathe.
“What about her?”
“Aren’t you… together?”
“Nope. Never,” Blake says, flat.
“Am I just a distraction?”
He shakes his head. “We’re the same. I see all of you, and I accept you anyway.”
He kisses my forehead, like that’s supposed to mean something. “Sleep in tomorrow. You deserve rest.”
I smile, watching him step out of the shower like he didn’t just crack the last of my defenses. He towels off and then the bathroom door shuts.
And the house goes quiet in the way quiet things do right before they lunge.
I step out, dry myself off, then pick up my phone and open my inbox.
Another message.
No subject.
You can’t hide forever, Shae.
This time, there’s an attachment.
A video.
My finger hovers over the play button.
Then I tap.
The footage is shaky, dark—streetlight glare and breathy movement—but I know that street.
Two blocks from Hearth & Hands.
The camera pans to a trash bin.
Zooms in.
Inside: an old photo.
Of me.
From prison.
Back when I didn’t know if the world would ever believe me again. Back when I didn’t know I’d be resurrected.
I close my phone slowly.
A smile curls at my mouth.
So someone thinks they’ve got dirt on me. They think I’ll run. They think I’m afraid.
Good.
Let them.
Because there’s nothing more dangerous than a woman who already burned her life down—and liked the smell of ash.
And if they’re watching?
I hope they’re taking notes.