Chapter Twenty-eight – Holt
Sleep doesn’t come. It never really does after a night like that.
The storm moves on sometime before dawn, but the tension it leaves behind lingers in the bones of the house, in the creak of the floorboards, in the way every small sound pulls my attention faster than it should.
I lie in bed for an hour staring at the ceiling, tracking the faint shift of light as morning starts to bleed in through the blinds, but rest never settles.
My body stays keyed up, alert in a way that feels more like waiting than recovery.
By the time I give up, the sky has gone that washed-out gray that comes after heavy rain, when everything feels scrubbed clean on the surface but heavier underneath.
The first thing I do is check the locks. Not because I think they’ve been touched, but because I need to know they haven’t.
The front door. Back door. Windows. The latch I fixed yesterday holds firm under my hand, solid where it had been loose before.
I test it twice anyway, then step back and scan the yard through the glass.
The grass is flattened in patches from the storm, puddles catching pale light near the fence line, the world looking deceptively calm.
Nothing moves, but that doesn’t mean anything anymore. Behind me, the house is eerie. Too quiet.
I turn. Lark is still on the couch, wrapped in the blanket from last night, one arm tucked beneath her head, the other resting loosely over Rook’s back where he’s curled into her like he’s guarding her in his sleep.
My lungs forget how to work properly for half a second.
She doesn’t look like someone in the middle of a mess.
She looks like she belongs here. It makes everything else feel sharper by comparison.
I move quietly through the kitchen, starting coffee more out of habit than need.
The sound of it fills the silence in a steady, familiar way, grounding enough to keep my thoughts from drifting too far ahead of me.
Outside, a bird calls somewhere near the fence, testing the air after the storm. It should feel like a reset.
It doesn’t. Not when I can still see her standing in the rain. Not when I can still smell smoke in the back of my throat. Not when I know this isn’t over.
The back door creaks open before I fully register the movement, and I’m already turning, already stepping forward before my brain catches up.
Lark stands there, one hand braced against the frame, hair loose and tangled from sleep, eyes not quite focused yet but aware enough to track my movement instantly.
“Hey,” she says, voice rough from sleep.
The tension in my shoulders eases just a fraction.
“Morning.”
She steps inside, pulling the door closed behind her, and leans back against it like she needs a second to fully wake up. Rook follows her in, tail low but steady, sticking close to her leg in a way he didn’t before last night.
“How long have you been up?” she asks.
“Long enough.”
Her gaze narrows slightly. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the one you’re getting.”
She huffs softly, pushing off the door and moving toward the counter. There’s a stiffness in the way she moves, subtle but there, and my attention tracks it immediately.
“Your arm,” I say.
“It’s fine.”
“That’s not an answer either.”
She glances at me, something almost amused flickering beneath the exhaustion. “You’re annoying.”
“Yeah.”
“Consistently.”
I reach for the first-aid kit before she can stop me.
“Sit.”
She rolls her eyes but does it anyway, settling onto the stool with a quiet exhale, her body folding inward for just a second before she straightens again.
The bandage is already slightly damp at the edges, and when I peel it back carefully, the cut beneath is cleaner than it looked last night but still angry, still fresh.
“You should’ve told me it was this deep,” I mutter.
“It’s not deep.”
“It didn’t need to be to get infected.”
She watches me work for a second, then looks away, her fingers tapping lightly against the edge of the counter in a rhythm that feels more like distraction than impatience.
“You always do this?” she asks.
“What?”
“Take over.”
I pause just long enough for the question to sit properly, then finish cleaning the cut before answering.
“I don’t see this as taking over,” I say evenly. “I see it as handling what needs to be handled.”
Her mouth curves slightly, but there’s no humor in it. “Same difference.”
I wrap the bandage again, tighter this time, making sure it holds.
“Not really.”
She doesn’t argue. That’s what gets me.
Instead, she shifts slightly, her knee brushing mine where I stand between her and the counter.
It’s a small thing. Accidental, probably.
But the contact lingers longer than it should, long enough to remind me exactly how close we were last night, how quickly things changed, how little distance there is now between what we are and what we’ve been trying not to define.
I step back first. I need the space, I don’t trust what happens if I don’t take it.
The coffee finishes brewing, the sharp scent filling the kitchen. Lark slides off the stool and pours two cups without asking, handing one to me like she’s done it a hundred times before.
“Thank you,” I say.
She nods once, leaning against the counter again, her gaze drifting toward the window.
“What’s the plan today?” she asks.
I take a slow sip of coffee, buying myself a second.
“Deputy’s coming back by the inn,” I say. “Marshal too, if they can get out there early enough.”
She nods. “And the barn.”
“I’ll handle that.”
Her head turns sharply. “We’ll handle it.”
“No.”
The word comes out firmer than I intend, and her expression hardens immediately.
“I’m not sitting out because you think I should.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you meant.”
I set the cup down carefully, forcing myself to stay level.
“It means I don’t want you anywhere near another fire until we know exactly what we’re dealing with.”
Her eyes flash. “We already know what we’re dealing with.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Which is exactly why I don’t want you in the middle of it.”
Silence falls between us again, heavier this time. It’s not just tension.
“You don’t get to decide that for me,” she says quietly.
“I know.”
“Then stop acting like you do.”
Every instinct in me has shifted from awareness to protection so fast I haven’t figured out how to separate the two yet.
I drag a hand down my face, exhaling slowly. “I’m not trying to control you.”
“It feels like you are.”
For a second, I don’t have an answer.
The truth sits somewhere in the middle, messy and uncomfortable. I’m not trying to take anything from her. But I am trying to keep her safe in a way that doesn’t leave much room for compromise.
“Then tell me what you need,” I say finally.
Her gaze holds mine, searching.
“Honesty,” she says. “Not decisions made for me.”
I nod once.
“That’s fair.”
It is, even if it makes this harder. Her shoulders ease just slightly, the tension between us shifting but not disappearing.
“Good,” she says softly.
We stand there for a second longer, the quiet stretching between us in a way that feels less like distance and more like recalibration, then something slams against the back window.
Every muscle in my body tightens instantly while Lark stills. Rook lifts his head, a low sound rumbling in his chest.
“What the hell—”
“Stay here,” I say, already moving.
I cross the house fast, rounding the corner toward the back of the property just as Rook launches into another barking fit behind me.
My boots hit damp earth, eyes scanning the edge of the yard, the line where the grass meets the trees.
Nothing. Just the faint sway of branches still settling after the storm.
The yard is empty, but movement catches near the tree line. A dark SUV tears down the dirt road beyond the fence line, tires kicking mud behind it as it disappears between the trees.
“Fuck.”
My pulse pounds hard against my ribs as I scan the property anyway, instincts refusing to settle. Too open. Too exposed. Whoever it was never intended to get close enough to be caught.
Only close enough to send a message.
I turn toward the window, then finally see it. A rock wrapped in white paper sits beneath the glass where it must’ve hit.
My stomach drops.
I step closer slowly, every instinct screaming at me to check the perimeter first, to make sure I’m not walking into something worse. But the paper pulls my attention, anchored there like a challenge.
The paper is damp from the grass when I crouch and unwrap it.
A photograph.
Another one.
This time, it’s not the house, not the yard, but Lark standing in the barn. It’s from last night. And beneath it, written in sharp, deliberate handwriting:
You should have stayed inside.
Cold moves through me in a way fire never has. Behind me, the back door opens.
“Holt?”
I turn too fast.
“Don’t come any closer.”
But she’s already there, already seeing it, already understanding. The silence that follows is absolute.
This is a message, and it’s not subtle. This person isn’t just escalating. They’re targeting. And now…there’s no question who they’re after.