54. Scarlett
Scarlett
I didn’t move right away.
The porch creaked beneath me, wood sun-warmed under bare feet. My coffee sits untouched. My fingers curl tighter around the edge of the swing, white-knuckled.
Go.
Leave.
It wasn’t a request.
It was a sentence.
I stared out at the trees, pretending like I wasn’t shaking on the inside. Like my fingers weren’t gripping the edge of the swing a little too hard.
The others stayed quiet. Trace looked like he might explode. Alden wouldn’t meet my eyes.
Zeke stood like a fucking statue at the bottom of the stairs, and for a second, I hated how calm he looked. Like he already knew I’d follow.
Maybe I did too.
Eventually, I stood.
Sloane rose from the porch rail, a flicker of panic in her eyes. “Scar—”
I shook my head once. “Not now. Not unless you’re going to tell me who I am. What I am. Why they all keep looking at me like I already chose something I never got the chance to understand.”
She didn’t say anything else. Just watched me, afraid this was the last time.
And maybe it was.
And I wished—for one breath, one second—that someone would stop me.
But no one did.
I walked inside, alone and tired of pretending, letting the screen door shut behind me. The air felt different. Like the house already knew I was leaving it.
I climbed the stairs slowly. One step at a time.
When I got to my room, I just stood in the doorway and looked at the bed. At the window. At the blanket I’d curled under with Hemingway last night when everything felt less broken.
I closed the door softly.
Then I opened the closet, grab my duffel, and threw it on the bed.
I didn’t fold anything.
Just grabbed.
Jeans. A hoodie. Underwear. That black dress I never wore but always meant to.
Downstairs, voices rose—sharp and urgent.
I froze, a t-shirt clutched in my hand. I moved to the top of the stairs and listened.
“…this wasn’t the plan,” Alden said.
“It’s the only plan now,” Zeke snapped. “Unless you want her dead.”
“She doesn’t even know why she’s being hunted,” Trace said, voice low, furious.
“She will.” Zeke sighed. “Soon enough.”
I stepped closer to the top of the stairs but don’t go down.
I let the sound of my name—unspoken but burning—settle into my bones like smoke.
Turning back into my room, I zipped the bag shut.
I didn’t want answers.
Not tonight.
I just wanted to get the hell out before I broke again.
***
I didn’t go back downstairs.
Not yet.
The duffel sat on the bed, mocking me. Half-zipped. Stuffed with clothes I didn’t care about, things I barely remembered packing.
I moved around the room like a ghost. Opened the window. Closed it again. Sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the floor until the lines blurred.
I didn’t cry.
Not because I wasn’t close—god, I was drowning—but because I didn’t have the energy.
There’s an ache that doesn’t come with tears. Just hollowness.
Raw. Bone-deep.
Like I’d burned through every version of myself and there was nothing left to hold.
The voices downstairs stopped. The arguing had gone quiet. And somehow, that was worse.
Because silence wasn’t peace.
It was pressure.
I leaned back on my hands and looked up at the ceiling. The same spot I’d stared at the first night we got here. The night everything felt heavy, but survivable.
Now?
Now it felt like I was standing on the edge of something sharp.
I thought about the kiss with Rhett. About Alden’s voice in my ear. About Trace’s fists, clenched at his sides like if he didn’t hold himself still, he’d destroy everything.
How I was the match they kept striking.
What the fuck was I doing?
I thought chaos would set me free. But maybe all I’d done was build a prettier prison.
One that smelled like sweat and salt and old lake air.
I curled onto my side, closing my eyes.
And for just a second, I let myself wish that someone—anyone—would come up the stairs.
Not to fight.
Not to ask questions.
Just to sit beside me.
Say nothing.
But no one did.
So I stayed still.
And waited for the storm to find me again.
***
I didn’t think I’d cry.
But the second I saw Hemingway asleep on the couch—curled into that same ridiculous little ball, face smushed into the throw pillow—it came up my throat like a wave.
Sloane stood by the door. Arms crossed. Mouth tight. Like if she let herself soften, she’d fall apart too.
Lena knelt beside the couch, one hand resting gently on Hemingway’s back, like she was easing the moment for both of us.
He stirred when I walked in. Lifted his head, ears twitching. Then padded across the cushions and jumped into my arms before I could even kneel.
I held him. Buried my face in the soft scruff of his neck, letting out a sound that wasn’t quite a sob but wasn’t anything else either.
“I’m coming back,” I whispered. “You be good, okay?”
He made a little grumble. Like he didn’t believe me.
I laughed, wet and shaky. “Don’t look at me like that.”
Sloane looked away as Lena stood slowly, wiping her cheek with her sleeve.
“Scar,” she said softly. “You know they’re wrapped around your finger, right?”
I blinked.
“What?”
She smiled through it. “Those boys. You think they’ve got the power. But it’s always been you. It’s you they orbit. Not the other way around.”
My throat tightened.
Sloane stepped closer, letting the wall she’d built around her heart fall just enough to let the truth out. “So don’t forget who the fuck you are when you get wherever you’re going.”
I hugged Hemingway tighter, kissing his head. Finally I let go and stood up like it took every ounce of will I had left.
“I’ll come back,” I said again.
Lena nodded. “You better.”
And then I walked out the front door for the last time.