Chapter 15
Dana was pulled from sleep by the sound, disoriented for a moment before her brain caught up with reality. Forge's room. Forge's bed. Forge's arm tightening around her as he reached for his phone in the darkness.
"Yeah." His voice was instantly alert—no grogginess, no confusion. Prison reflexes. "When?" A pause. "How bad?" Another pause, longer this time. "We're on our way."
He ended the call and sat up in one fluid motion. Dana pushed herself upright, her heart already pounding with dread.
"What is it?"
Forge turned to look at her, and something in his expression made her stomach drop.
"It's your store," he said quietly. "Dana, I'm sorry. It's gone."
The drive to Kensington took twenty minutes.
Dana sat behind Forge on the bike, arms locked around his waist, face pressed against his back so she didn't have to see. Didn't have to watch the city pass by, didn't have to count the blocks until her worst nightmare became real.
She could smell the smoke before they turned the corner.
The acrid stench of burning fabric, melting plastic, charred wood. The smell of five years of work reduced to ash. The smell of her mother's legacy going up in flames.
Forge pulled to a stop across the street, and Dana forced herself to look.
Second Chances was gone.
Where her store had stood—the careful displays, the vintage furniture, the hand-painted sign she'd designed herself—there was nothing but blackened rubble and smoke.
Fire trucks lined the curb, their hoses still spraying water onto the smoldering remains.
Firefighters moved through the wreckage like ghosts, their silhouettes backlit by the glow of dying embers.
The building next door—Mrs. Palmer's dry cleaners—had survived, though its windows were shattered and its facade was scorched black. Small mercies. At least the fire hadn't spread.
Dana climbed off the bike on legs that felt like rubber.
She stood on the sidewalk, staring at the destruction, and waited for the tears to come.
They didn't.
Instead, something cold and hard settled in her chest. Something that felt less like grief and more like fury—a rage so deep it burned hotter than the fire that had consumed everything she'd built.
Forge appeared at her side, his hand finding hers in the darkness. He didn't speak. Didn't offer platitudes or empty comfort. Just stood with her in the smoke and let her process.
"Five years," she said finally. Her voice came out flat, strange. "Five years of estate sales and storage auctions. Five years of learning what had value and what was junk. Five years of proving that nothing was too broken to salvage."
"Dana—"
"My mother's sewing machine was in there." The words felt like glass in her throat. "I kept it in the back room, in a case, because I couldn't bear to sell it. It was the last thing I had of hers."
Forge's arm came around her shoulders, pulling her against his side. She let him take her weight, let herself lean into his strength, but the tears still wouldn't come.
"They knew," she said. "Whoever did this—they knew exactly what this place meant to me. This wasn't random. This was punishment."
"Lenny Grimes." Forge's voice was ice. "Ray's last lieutenant. He handles the personal jobs—the ones that are supposed to hurt."
"And this was supposed to hurt me."
"Yeah." His arm tightened around her. "It was."
A firefighter approached them—middle-aged, soot-streaked, exhaustion carved into every line of his face. "You the owner?"
Dana nodded, not trusting her voice.
"I'm sorry, ma'am. The fire was accelerated—some kind of fuel, probably gasoline. It went up fast. By the time we got here, there was nothing we could do." He pulled off his helmet, ran a hand through sweat-soaked hair. "You got insurance?"
"Some." Not enough. Never enough for something like this.
"The investigators will be in touch. We'll need a statement." He glanced at Forge, at the cut he was wearing, at the motorcycle parked across the street. Something flickered in his expression—recognition, maybe, or resignation. "You folks take care."
He walked away, and Dana was left staring at the smoking ruins of everything she'd built.
The vintage dresses from the 1950s, carefully preserved and priced for the hipsters who appreciated authentic fashion.
The furniture she'd restored herself, learning to sand and stain and refinish from YouTube tutorials and her mother's old handbooks.
The jewelry case with its collection of estate pieces, each one with a story she'd invented to help customers connect with their purchases.
All of it. Gone.
"I should cry," she heard herself say. "That's what people do, right? When they lose everything?"
"You didn't lose everything." Forge turned her to face him, hands gripping her shoulders with fierce gentleness.
"You lost a building. You lost inventory.
You lost things—important things, irreplaceable things.
But you didn't lose yourself. You didn't lose what you know or what you can do. And you sure as hell didn't lose me."
"My mother's sewing machine—"
"Was a thing. A symbol. It wasn't actually her.
" His hands came up to cup her face, forcing her to meet his eyes.
"Your mother is in here." He touched her temple.
"And here." He touched her heart. "That's what she taught you—to see value in broken things.
That's her legacy. Not a machine. Not a building. You."
Something cracked in Dana's chest. Not the tears she'd been expecting, but something harder. Something that felt like resolve crystallizing into steel.
"He wanted to break me," she said slowly. "Grimes. Ray. They thought if they took my store, I'd have nothing left to fight for."
"Did they?"
Dana looked back at the rubble, at the smoke still rising into the pre-dawn sky. She thought about her mother's hands, always busy, always creating. About the philosophy she'd built her life around—that nothing was too broken to be salvaged. That second chances were always possible.
Ray Stoltz had tried to take that from her. Had sent his sadist to burn her second chances to the ground.
But he'd miscalculated.
"No," she said. Her voice was stronger now, steadier. "They didn't take my fight. They just made it personal."
Forge's expression shifted—something dark and proud flickering in his gaze. "What do you want, Dana?"
"I want to rebuild." The words came easily, naturally, like they'd been waiting inside her all along. "Bigger. Better. Somewhere Ray Stoltz can't touch."
"And Grimes?"
Dana turned to face him fully, and she saw him register the change in her. The softness burned away, replaced by something harder. Something that matched the steel in his own eyes.
"I want Lenny Grimes to understand something," she said. "He thought he could destroy me by burning down a building. He thought he could take my second chances and turn them to ash."
"And?"
"And he was wrong." Dana's jaw tightened, fury coursing through her veins like fire. "Because second chances aren't about buildings or inventory or any of the things he destroyed tonight. They're about believing that nothing is too broken to fix. And I'm not broken, Forge. I'm angry."
"Good." His voice was rough with approval. "You should be angry."
"I want him to know that. I want him to understand that some things can't be destroyed—not with fire, not with violence, not with anything he and Ray can throw at me.
" She stepped closer, her hand finding his chest, feeling his heart beat strong and steady under her palm.
"I want him to understand that he failed.
And then I want you to make sure he never threatens anyone else again. "
Forge's eyes blazed with something that made her blood sing. Pride. Desire. The fierce, possessive love of a man who'd found his match.
"You're not asking me to kill him?"
"I'm asking you to end this." Dana held his gaze without flinching. "Whatever that takes. Whatever that means. I don't need the details. I just need to know that when you're done, Lenny Grimes will never hurt anyone the way he tried to hurt me tonight."
"And Ray?"
"Ray comes after." Her voice hardened. "Grimes first. The man who lit the match. The man who thought he could burn down my mother's memory and break me with it. He's the one I want to understand first."
Forge was silent for a long moment, studying her face in the firelight. Whatever he saw there must have satisfied him, because when he spoke, his voice was heavy with promise.
"I'll find him," he said. "Tonight. And when I'm done, he'll understand exactly what happens when you come for what's mine."
"I'm not yours to avenge."
"No." He pulled her close, one arm banded around her waist like iron.
"You're mine to protect. To fight for. To stand beside while you rebuild everything they tried to take.
" His forehead dropped to rest against hers.
"But you're also mine to avenge, Dana. Because what he did tonight—what he tried to do—that's not something I can let stand.
Not as a brother. Not as your man. Not as someone who loves you too much to watch you burn alone. "
The word hit her like a physical blow. Love. He'd never said it before. Not directly. And here he was, declaring it in front of her ruined store while the smoke still rose into the sky.
"You love me."
"Yeah." His voice was rough, raw. "I love you.
Probably have since you handed me that jacket and looked at me like I was worth saving.
Definitely have since you watched me kill a man and kissed me anyway.
" His hand came up to cup her face. "So when I tell you I'm going to make Grimes pay for this—believe me.
It's not just about the club or the war.
It's about you. It's about what he tried to take from you. "
Dana leaned into him, letting his strength hold her up for just a moment longer. Behind them, the firefighters were packing up, the flames finally extinguished, the destruction complete.
But she wasn't destroyed. She was standing.
And when she pulled back to meet Forge's eyes, her voice was steady as steel.
"Make him understand," she said. "Make Lenny Grimes understand that some things can't be destroyed. And then come home to me."