Heimlock Inferno

1. Chapter One

Three Days After The Weyr Reunion

If one could win an award for epic pity parties, I’d be a gold medalist right now. My acceptance speech would be something along the lines of, “ Another award? It’s a nightmare-come-true. I’d like to thank all of the terrible people who brought me here!”

Alas, it’s a pity party of one, kept in the confines of my shuttered bedroom.

No audience to witness the way I curl into these wrinkled sheets.

The shower’s calling my name like a siren song, but the energy won’t appear.

Dozens of missed calls and texts plague my phone’s screen.

They’ll want to know if I’m okay. When I admit the truth, that I’m decidedly not okay, they’ll want to come over.

No, I’d much prefer to stew in my regret all alone.

My father shouldn’t have been at the Weyr reunion. It was for the whole extended family to spend time together, but he was an outcast, exiled years ago.

I’d paid for letting my guard down.

My first time seeing him in almost two decades should have been the last time he breathed. Fynn stopped me, and I let him, but a stronger man would’ve overthrown him and ripped flesh from bone. Would sleep come easier if Racidious Gleanscale didn’t walk this world?

One day, I’d like to find out.

My stomach growls again. I turn over to stare at the wall, refusing to obey. The pain is a physical reminder of what festers behind my shiny mask. Since I can’t crack my ribs apart to bare my blackened heart as proof, this is the best I can do.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

My eyes bolt open, adrenaline pulsing in my veins at the pounding on my front door.

“Trinte! Open up! It’s me, Kyrielle!”

Fuck.

Why in the Hells is she even here? If I scream for her to go away, will she listen?

She must be psychic because she snarls, “I’m not leaving until I get proof of life!”

Well, that answers my question. Groaning, I sit up. Reality swims in my vision from lack of food. When was the last time I ate? Yesterday?

Grabbing a T-shirt off the floor, I pull it on. The front door’s knob jiggles. “Trinte! I’ll burn down this front door, I swear to the goddesses!”

“Okay!” My voice echoes across the apartment. The jiggling stops. Snatching a random pair of pants from a wrinkled pile of laundry, I pull them on while I hop toward Kyrielle’s impatient voice.

“That’s not proof of life, Trinte! Open up right—”

I fling the door open, hissing at the bright light. Holding a hand over my brow, I blink at the orange dreamsicle standing in front of me.

Kyrielle peers at me with fireburst eyes, tangerine hair, and a ball of fire ready in a palm.

Her iridescent orange wings flick impatiently.

The expression contorting her face is nothing short of fierce.

It’s difficult to hide my shock at her random appearance, but a miniscule part of my heart thumps with appreciation.

But we aren’t friends. Sure, we’ve texted to coordinate things for Fynn and Orliana. Yes, we hooked up once months ago. None of that warrants this unexpected appearance.

“I’m alive,” I say dryly. “Satisfied?”

“No.”

Extinguishing the fire in her palm, she shoves past me before my tired brain can register what’s happening. The door slams into my leg. Swearing, I clutch my knee while shutting it.

The blazing tornado of a woman plants orange tipped hands on her thick hips and peers around my less-than-clean apartment.

With a flourish of my hand, I snark, “Yes. Please. Come in. Make yourself at home.”

Seeing my space with new eyes, shame has my shoulders bowed forward. Kyrielle takes in the random bits of laundry and trash on the floor. Plates in the sink. Curtains pulled tight.

Like I said, this pity party is one for the ages.

Whirling, Kyrielle examines all of my depressive glory. “You look like shit.”

“So do you,” I snap back. Immediate regret has me cursing under my breath and rubbing the back of my neck. “Sorry. That was a real dunghole thing to say.”

Kyrielle doesn’t actually look awful — she looks beautiful. Muscles flex in her bare arms as she picks up discarded items off my coffee table. Her wings cast a glow against the dark walls; a guiding light in my shadows.

Eyebrows raised, I cross my arms. “What are you doing?”

“Cleaning your depression cave.”

“Why?”

“Because you aren’t doing it.”

Tone flat, I say, “Because I didn’t invite you into my depression cave. That’s the whole point of a depression cave, Kyrielle. To wallow in darkness.”

She gives me a look of disbelief. “Wallow? Should I call you a depression pig now? And this is your very own depression sty?”

Grinding my teeth, I throw my hands up, walking into the kitchen. “Fine. I’ll clean my sty.”

Standing in front of the sink, I begin loudly throwing around dishes. Making my opinion abundantly clear.

Against my will, the awareness of her never wavers. My ears track her movements as she folds blankets and arranges pillows. A kind gesture. Unwarranted. Clenching my jaw, I focus on the dishes. This is already zapping energy out of my body. It was stupid to skip dinner, then breakfast.

As if she can read my thoughts — Fire Sprites can’t read minds, right? — Kyrielle chirps, “Have you eaten?”

The betrayal comes directly from my belly as it growls. Across the room, through an open partition separating the living room from the kitchen, she smirks.

“I’m fine,” I grind out, scrubbing a fork with intense focus.

“Orliana and Fynn will flay me if they find out I came over and didn’t feed you.”

“It’s not your job, Kyrielle.” Slamming the faucet off, I grab a dish towel to dry my hands. “Why are you here?”

Kyrielle ignores my attitude, twisting open my blinds. “Because they said you disappeared and ignored their calls. It’s been days.”

Tossing the dish towel onto the counter, I march over to where she’s folding one of my hoodies. Snatching it out of her grip, I attempt to look menacing. Not because I want to frighten her, but because I’m the frightened one. No one needs to take care of me.

“There’s a reason why. I’m fine. We’re basically acquaintances, Kyri.”

Undeterred, she lifts her chin. I’ve seen her take on men bigger than me — I know she isn’t intimidated. “We weren’t acquaintances that night in the bathroom.”

I’m unable to look away from her stony expression; at the way her dark lashes bring out the yellows and oranges of her irises.

The reminder of that day in the bathroom has my blood heating.

Finally feeling something after so much numbness.

It’s unfortunate that I look and smell like overcooked two-week-old leftovers.

“We said it was a one-time thing. The last time I saw you was when you were riding North’s cock like it held the secrets to the universe.”

My tail twitches at the memory of her fucking that Gargoyle. The jealousy thriving inside me since that night has been staunchly ignored until now. We’d said it was a one-time thing — it’s wholly unfair to hold that situation against her.

Kyrielle’s cheeks flush. Instead of lashing out, she sniffs the air. Crossing her arms, she gives me a pointed, cruel look. “It stinks in here.”

I sweep a hand toward the door. “Feel free to see yourself out as easily as you let yourself in. Leave me to my sty.”

Instead of listening, she walks around me and stalks into the kitchen. I watch her, slack jawed. The audacity is both stunning and infuriating.

At the battle gym, Kyrielle’s known for her tenacious spirit. Over these last few months, I’ve secretly watched her in battles — she’s always ready to throw a punch.

Apparently, that stubbornness applies to all things in life.

Fantastic.

Ignoring my attempt at intimidation, she flings open cabinets, slamming them shut when she discovers my meager excuses for food.

The anger rotting my insides flares; it has me stomping into the kitchen, ready to toss her out on that pert ass.

As if she can sense my intentions, when I’m close enough to scoop her up, she spins, pointing a finger at me. “Touch me and we’ll see how you hold up on an empty stomach while we rearrange this kitchen with your fucking face, Trinte.”

That stops me in my tracks. Like I said, she’s capable of doing it. Inhaling deeply, I exhale in resignation. “If I ask politely for you to get the fuck out, will you listen?”

“No.”

Rolling my jaw, I hold her stare until my eyes water, forcing a blink. She takes this as some silent victory and continues to assault my cabinets.

“Go shower,” she says, sounding chipper. “When you’re done, there will be …” She lifts a box of noodles I know for a fact are expired. “… something to eat.”

“Good luck,” I mutter, leaving her to make some half-baked concoction.

Fuming in my exhausted anger, I do as she demands and shower. I’ll never admit it to her, but it actually improves my mood. After shaving my face, brushing my hair, and applying deodorant, I almost feel decent.

It’d be better if my father were dead, though.

Because that’s the crux of it all. When he touched me at the Weyr reunion, it brought me back to a dark place. To the day I lost my eye and the moment I swore to myself that he’d never lay a hand on me ever again.