Chapter 27 Burning The Past At Dawn
Burning The Past At Dawn
~LUCA~
Revenge is a dish best served with theatrical flair and a sunrise backdrop, apparently.
"Holy shit!" Hazel swears, the words ripped from her as I whip the reins, urging Storm faster up the mountain path. Her arms tighten around my waist, fingers digging into my shirt, and her shrieked giggles mix with "Woohoo!" as we fly over familiar terrain.
This is what joy sounds like. Not the careful, measured happiness she's been allowing herself, but real, uncensored, profanity-laced joy.
Thank god it's early—barely 5:30 now—because this path is usually crawling with hikers who'd definitely have opinions about horseback riding at breakneck speed. But I know this will empower her, this reminder that she can hold on tight and trust someone else to guide her somewhere beautiful.
Storm knows this path by heart, has made this climb a hundred times, but never carrying something this precious. Hazel's body pressed against my back, her breath hot against my neck when she laughs, the vanilla-cinnamon scent of her mixing with morning air and leather and possibility.
We reach the top just as the sky starts thinking about dawn, that purple-gray moment before the world remembers color exists.
The clearing spreads before us—grass still wet with dew, wooden posts we installed years ago for this exact purpose, and the view that makes everyone who sees it reconsider their atheism.
I dismount first, then turn to help her down, and my brain short-circuits for a moment.
Jesus Christ.
She's changed clothes. Somewhere between the rose burning and now, she's transformed.
Gone is the oversized sweater, replaced with one of the new pieces from our shopping spree—a deep green dress that clings to every curve she's been hiding, showing the silhouette of a body that could start wars. The stockings she’s wearing adds the touch of sexiness and practicality.
Her hair falls in waves instead of the usual messy bun, and she's touched up her makeup, just enough to highlight those hazel eyes that can't decide if they're green or gold.
This is her. The woman who wore purple dresses and owned her beauty.
After our wild ride, she's exhilarated—eyes sparkling with excitement instead of tears, cheeks flushed from wind and adrenaline instead of crying, looking alive in a way that makes my chest tight.
"That was insane!" she breathes, hands still shaking slightly from the ride.
"That was just the warm-up."
I give Storm a pat, promising her extra oats later, getting a pleased neigh in response.
Then I grab the bag containing the last bouquet and take Hazel's hand.
"Come on."
She follows, trusting, and I lead her to the cliff edge where the fire pit waits. Watch her face as she processes what she's seeing.
"Luca..." Her voice goes quiet, shocked. "Is that...?"
The pit is full. Every rose, every "gift," every unwanted reminder that's appeared at her door for the last two weeks.
I've been collecting them, storing them, waiting for this moment.
"You knew." It's not a question. "You knew and you... collected them?"
I nod once, gesturing at the bagged roses in my hand. "Add it to the pile."
She takes the bouquet, looks at it with undisguised disgust, then tosses it into the pit with prejudice. It lands on top of chocolate boxes and jewelry and cards I didn't read but knew were poisonous.
I pull out my matches—the good ones from the ranch, not the cheap ones that fail when you need them most—and light one, offering it to her.
"When you need to move on," I tell her, "it starts with burning away the past that's desperate to drag you down."
She stares at the small flame, mesmerized.
"Light it all up," I continue. "And while it burns, say everything.
Every hurt, every fear, every piece of anger you've been swallowing.
Doesn't matter how much or how loud or how long.
No one can hear you up here except the sunrise, so let it out.
Let it all burn with the past that's trying to haunt you from the tallest peak in Oakridge. "
She takes the match with steady fingers, though I can see her pulse fluttering at her throat. Takes three deep breaths like she's preparing for battle. Then tosses it with a look of pure determination.
The fire catches immediately—I may have added accelerant, but she doesn't need to know that. Flames leap up, hungry and cleansing, devouring roses and lies with equal enthusiasm.
She starts quietly, almost whispering.
"I hate how they treated me."
The words get louder.
"Bullied me. Belittled me. Made me feel so fucking small in my own home."
Tears start falling, but she doesn't stop. If anything, she gets louder.
"I hate what you did to me! How you broke me down piece by piece until I didn't recognize myself!"
She's really going now, voice carrying across the empty mountain.
"I HATE HOW YOU MADE ME HATE MY BODY!"
The scream echoes off the rocks, raw and powerful.
"Hate how you made me feel so fucking insecure, like I wasn't worthy of love! How you've made it so hard to trust anyone who dares show me affection!"
She's sobbing now but still screaming, letting years of suppressed rage finally have a voice.
"I HATE HOW YOU WASTED MY YEARS LIKE I WASN'T WORTHY OF BETTER! LIKE I WAS NOTHING! LIKE I DESERVED THE CRUELTY!"
The fire roars higher as if feeding on her pain, transforming it into heat and light and ash.
"FUCK YOU FOR MAKING ME SMALL! FUCK YOU FOR THE ROSES! FUCK YOU FOR EVERY SMILE I FAKED AND EVERY TEAR I HID AND EVERY PIECE OF MYSELF I GAVE UP TO TRY TO BE ENOUGH FOR YOU!"
She screams wordlessly then, pure sound that carries every hurt she can't name, and I force myself to stay back. This is hers. Her moment, her ownership, her reclaiming.
Finally, she runs out of voice, out of tears, standing there panting and shaking. The fire crackles, consuming the last of Korrin's attempts to hurt her, and she wipes her face with trembling hands.
Then she sees it.
"Oh my god," she whispers.
The sunrise has started while she raged.
The horizon bleeds pink and gold, painting the sky in shades of beginning.
Light spills across the valley below, setting the autumn trees on fire in the good way, the beautiful way.
The whole world spreads out before us, vast and possible and hers for the taking.
She moves around the fire pit—her past literally burning behind her—and walks to the wooden fence at the cliff's edge. The symbolism isn't lost on either of us: facing the sunrise while everything that hurt her turns to ash and smoke.
I finally let myself approach, standing beside her as she takes in the view. Gently place my hand on her head, smoothing her wind-wild hair.
"You did it," I tell her softly. "Left the past behind. Let it burn."
She turns to look at me, and her face is incandescent—tear-tracked but glowing, exhausted but energized, broken open but somehow more whole.
"I did," she says, wonder in her voice. "I actually did."
"How do you feel?"
"Empty. But good empty? Like I've been carrying rocks in my pockets and finally remembered I can put them down."
"That's healing."
"That's terrifying."
"Same thing sometimes."
She smiles then, real and warm, and rises up on her tiptoes.
I meet her halfway, kissing her as the sunrise paints us gold and the fire consumes the last of what tried to break her. She tastes like freedom and tears and the kind of strength that only comes from choosing to let go.
When we part, she's smiling.
"Thank you. For knowing what I needed before I did."
"Always," I say, meaning it.
We stand together watching the sun climb higher, her past nothing but smoke on the wind, and I let myself feel the satisfaction of giving her this—this moment, this release, this new beginning.
But underneath the satisfaction, something darker coils.
Because Korrin did this.
Broke this incredible woman down until she believed she was nothing. Made her hate her body, her voice, her very existence. Sent her roses, knowing what they meant, trying to drag her back into that darkness.
He needs to pay.
Not in some dramatic, violent way—I'm not Levi with his impulsive rage or Rowan with his protective fury. I'm the one who plans, who calculates, who makes sure consequences stick.
Korrin thinks he can reach into our town, our territory, our omega's life, and cause pain without repercussion.
He's wrong.
I'll make sure he learns exactly how wrong.
But that's for later. Right now, Hazel is smiling at the sunrise, wearing a dress that shows her curves, standing tall instead of shrinking, and that's everything.
The fire dies to embers behind us, taking her pain with it.
And in my mind, another fire starts—cold and patient and aimed at the Alpha who thought he could break her permanently.
Revenge is a dish best served cold.
But first, you have to let the past burn.