Chapter 36
Nova
They bring me to the kitchen like I’m made of glass.
I’m not complaining. The couch was fine, but sitting there with Vaelor hovering and Trey still coughing and Beckett watching me like I might spontaneously combust felt wrong.
At least in the kitchen there’s something to do—somewhere to look that isn’t three faces trying not to show how scared they still are.
Vaelor’s already at the stove. Of course he is. The man just ran into a burning room and he’s making food like nothing happened, except now there’s more of it. Eggs cracking, bread in the toaster, bacon starting to sizzle.
That’s when I see his arms.
Angry red marks climbing from his wrists to his elbows, the skin tight and shiny in places. Burns. From the fire. From saving me.
My stomach drops.
“Vaelor—”
“Sit,” he says without turning around. “I’ve got this.”
“But your arms—”
“Are fine. Sit.”
I sit. But I can’t stop looking at the damage. At what he did for me.
Beckett pulls out a chair across from me. Trey drops into the one beside him, another cough rattling through his chest.
“How are you feeling?” Beckett asks.
“Fine. Really.” I look at Trey as he coughs again. “The better question is how are you.”
He waves me off. “I’ll be alright. We got you out. That’s what matters.”
I don’t think about it. I just scoot my chair closer and put my hand on his back, rubbing slow circles between his shoulder blades. He tenses for a second, surprised, then relaxes into it.
“You inhaled a lot of smoke,” I say quietly.
“So did Vaelor.”
“Vaelor’s not the one who can’t stop coughing.”
A mug appears in front of me. I look up and Vaelor’s standing there, steam curling from the cup. The burns on his forearm are inches from my face and I have to force myself not to reach for them.
“Coffee,” he says. “Drink.”
I take it, wrap my hands around the warmth. Bring it to my lips.
“Oh.” I blink. Take another sip. “This is really good. What did you put in it?”
“Sugar.”
“Just sugar?”
“Cream and sugar.” He smiles. “I should have known.”
Vaelor goes back to the stove. The bacon’s done, the eggs are nearly there, and he’s moving with that easy efficiency he always has—like feeding people is just what he does.
I get up before I think about it.
“Let me help.”
He glances over his shoulder. “You don’t have to.”
“I know. I want to.”
Something shifts in his expression. Softer. He nods toward the cabinet. “Plates are up there.”
We work in silence, setting the table, laying out food. Our arms brush as we reach for the same serving spoon and warmth blooms under my skin—not from him, from somewhere inside me. A low hum behind my ribs that I don’t have the energy to question.
I shake it off. Keep moving.
Footsteps on the stairs.
Heavy, tired. Then voices—Locke’s low rumble, Kyron’s clipped response, Rane saying something I can’t make out.
They come into the kitchen looking exhausted, covered in soot and sweat. The fire must be out. Kyron’s carrying something in his hands—dark, misshapen, still faintly smoking.
He sets it on the table with a thud.
“Found this by the window,” he says. “Someone threw it through. There’s glass everywhere up there.”
I stare at it. Charred fabric. Melted plastic. Something that might have been food once, rotting underneath the burn. The smell hits me—smoke and something worse. Something rank.
“What is it?” Rane asks, leaning closer.
“Garbage,” Beckett says, frowning. “Trash. Someone lit trash on fire and threw it through her window.”
I’m still staring at it.
Trash.
The word echoes. Harrick’s voice in my head, that morning on the path.
“Fifteen years on the street. Sleeping in trash. Eating out of the garbage.”
“Nova?” Trey’s voice, careful. “You okay?”
“That’s what he said.” My voice comes out quiet. Flat. “Harrick. That day on the path, before I left. He said I was sleeping in trash. Eating garbage.” I swallow. “That’s what they think I am.”
Silence.
Then Locke’s fist hits the table hard enough to rattle the plates.
“Those fucking—”
“They went from threats to action.” Kyron’s voice is tight. “Words to this.”
“I can’t believe they actually did it,” Rane breathes.
“I can.” Locke’s jaw is granite.
I look down at my hands. They’re shaking slightly. I’m still wearing the same sleep shirt—singed sleeves, smoke in my hair.
“How bad is my room?”
They exchange looks. And I know whatever they say next won’t be good.
“Most of it’s gone,” Beckett says carefully. “Some things might be salvageable. We won’t know until morning.”
The white outfit. The leather and lace that made me feel like someone who belonged.
“I left the white outfit in the bathroom,” I say. “Before bed. I didn’t want to wrinkle it.”
“Then it’s probably fine,” Vaelor says. “The bathroom wasn’t touched.”
Relief hits sharper than I expected. It’s just clothes. Except it’s not. It’s the first thing I ever owned that made me feel beautiful.
“The green sweater?”
Kyron’s expression softens. “We’ll get you another one.”
“You don’t have to—”
“You’ll have another one.” He holds my gaze. “And this time you don’t get to argue.”
I manage a small smile.
“So how do we prove it was them?” Trey asks.
“We don’t.” Locke shakes his head. “Silas’s father would bury any accusation before it got off the ground.”
“But it means we’re not safe here anymore,” Beckett says quietly. “Not like we thought.”
“So what do we do?”
The question hangs. Everyone exchanges those silent looks—the communication they’ve built over years that I’m only starting to read.
“Nova.” Vaelor’s voice is gentle. “Until we figure this out—you should sleep with one of us.”
“Your room’s kind of gone anyway,” Rane adds.
“Not to mention you slept through a raging fire,” Trey says.
Locke’s head snaps toward him. “She what?”
“Slept through it. The whole thing.” Trey shakes his head. “Flames three feet from her bed and she didn’t move. Eyes fluttered open like she’d just taken a nap.”
“No burns,” Vaelor adds quietly. “No smoke damage. Nothing.”
Kyron’s frown deepens. “That’s not possible.”
“And yet.” Beckett’s voice is soft.
They’re all looking at me now. I don’t have answers for them.
“Sleeping beauty,” Rane offers with a weak grin, trying to cut the tension.
“Ha ha.”
But I’m not really annoyed. I’m too tired. Too wrung out from everything—the date, the kiss, the fire, the realization that someone wants me gone badly enough to burn me alive.
The night winds down slowly. Food gets eaten. Plates get cleared. Conversations trail off into yawns. One by one, they drift toward the stairs—Rane first, then Kyron, then the others.
Until it’s just me and Vaelor.
He’s at the sink, washing dishes like it’s any other night. Water running, soap suds, the quiet clink of plates.
I get up. Cross the kitchen. Stand beside him.
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
He doesn’t look up. “For what?”
“For saving me. For running into a burning room. For—” My voice catches. “All of it.”
Now he turns. Those hazel eyes, warm and steady.
“Anytime, Nova.”
I take a breath.
“Can I stay with you tonight?”
The smile that spreads across his face is slow. Real. He dries his hands on the towel and pulls me into a hug, and I let him—let myself sink into his chest, feel his arms wrap around me, solid and warm and safe.
And then I’m crying.
I don’t mean to. It just happens—the fear and the exhaustion and the relief all crashing together, leaking out in shaky breaths against his shirt. His arms tighten. He doesn’t say anything. Just holds me while I fall apart.
“I’m sorry,” I manage, pulling back. I swipe at my cheeks with my hand, tears smearing across my skin. “I don’t know why I’m—”
“Don’t apologize.”
My hand finds his forearm without thinking. Right where the burns are worst. I just want to touch him, to make sure he’s real, to—
He inhales sharply.
I yank my hand back. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt—”
But he’s not looking at me. He’s looking at his arm.
I follow his gaze.
The skin is still red. Still damaged. But less somehow. The angry shine has dulled. The edges look softer, like a burn that’s been healing for days instead of hours.
Neither of us speaks.
Vaelor flexes his hand slowly. Opens and closes his fingers. His brow furrows.
“That’s…” He doesn’t finish.
I stare at my palm. It looks the same as always. But there’s warmth fading from it—warmth that doesn’t feel like mine.
“I don’t—” I start.
“Not tonight.” His voice is quiet. Steady. “We don’t have to figure it out tonight.”
I nod because I don’t know what else to do.
He takes my hand—the same hand that just did something neither of us can explain—and leads me toward the stairs.
His room is warm and dark and smells like him. He gives me a shirt to sleep in, turns around while I change. When we climb into bed there’s nothing but exhaustion and comfort and the solid weight of his arm across my waist.
I close my eyes.
I dream of fire. It doesn’t burn.