Chapter twenty-Three #3
"No," I agree. "This time, you're the weapon."
She finally looks at me. Her eyes are dry. Clear. The decision has been made. "We should rest,” she whispers. “We have eighteen hours until he arrives."
"We should rest," I echo. But neither of us moves.
The house settles around us; old wood creaking, the heating system humming to life like it's waking from a long nightmare.
Tomorrow, Mrs. Whitley will make breakfast. Cam will run final checks on the security loop.
Lila will sweep the perimeter one last time.
And Kiera and I will prepare to kill her father in the room where he killed her mother.
But for now, we stand in the library, on a bloodstain that left a mark on more than just the wood, and I watch her transform.
From the girl who needed protection to the weapon that will finally deliver justice.
"Come on," I finally say, tugging her hand. "Mrs. Whitley made up the master bedroom for us. If we're going to fight tomorrow, we need sleep."
She follows me out of the library, stopping at the doorway.
She looks back one more time. At the stain, at the bookshelves, at the desk where her father sat while her mother bled out on the floor.
"Sixteen years," she whispers, her voice barely carrying in the heavy silence.
"That's how long cicadas sleep underground before they emerge. "
I squeeze her hand, thumb brushing over her knuckles. "Then it's time to wake up."
We climb the stairs together, past portraits of long-dead Hawthornes, past the bedroom where she grew up, and into the master suite where we'll spend our last night before the war comes home.
Tomorrow, Wade Hawthorne walks into his daughter's trap.
Tonight, I hold her while she finally sleeps.
The house waits with us—patient, hungry, and ancient—ready to collect on a debt sixteen years overdue.
I wake to find her side of the bed cold.
The sheets are thrown back, her warmth long gone from the mattress.
I don't panic. I know where she is. The library is dark when I step inside, but I can see her silhouette against the window, backlit by the garden lights Mrs. Whitley must have left on.
She's wearing my shirt, legs bare, hair loose and wild around her shoulders.
"Couldn't sleep?" I ask, keeping my voice low.
"I slept," she says without turning around. "Four hours. More than I've gotten in weeks."
I join her at the window, close enough that our arms brush. Outside, the wild peonies sway in the night breeze like ghosts dancing. "Second thoughts?"
"No." The word is immediate. Certain. "Just… saying goodbye."
"To the house?" I ask quietly.
"To the girl who used to live here." She finally looks at me. Her eyes calm and unbreakable. "She's been dead a long time. I'm just finally burying her.” A faint, almost cruel smile touches her lips. “And to the house, it’ll be a pile of ashes by the end."
I pull her against my chest, her back to my front, arms wrapped around her waist. We stand like that for a long moment, watching the peonies sway, waiting for dawn to break. "Fourteen hours," she whispers. "Fourteen hours and it's over."
"Fourteen hours and it begins," I correct softly, tightening my arms around her waist. "The rest of our lives. Whatever that looks like."
Kiera leans her head back against my shoulder, her body still tense in my arms. "I'm going to kill him, Sterling. In cold blood. Premeditated murder. You understand that, right? What am I asking you to be a part of?"
"You do know what I do for a living, right?" I laugh softly into her hair. "You can’t scare me away, Thorn."
"Even after?” she asks, keeping her voice low. “When the adrenaline fades, and you realize what I am?"
I turn her in my arms until she’s facing me, forcing her to meet my eyes.
"You want to know what I see when I look at you?” My voice drops, rough and certain.
“I see a woman who survived her father's violence, her ex's assault, and sixteen years of unanswered questions. I see someone who took all that pain and forged it into purpose. Into steel.” I cup her face, thumb brushing her cheek.
“I see my fucking future, Kiera. Dark. Violent. Probably doomed. But mine,” I growl. “My match in every single way."
Her hands come up to frame my face, thumbs stroking slowly along my jaw. "You're insane,” she whispers, but there’s no bite in it.
"Probably," I agree, my forehead resting against hers. "But so are you." She kisses me. Soft and slow, like she's memorizing the taste. When she pulls back, there’s a sad, fragile smile on her face.
Pulling her a little closer, I whisper against her lips, “We show Wade Hawthorne what happens when you create a monster…
and forget to kill it." We go back to bed, but neither of us sleeps.
We just lie there, wrapped around each other in the dark, counting down the hours until midnight.
Until the cicada finally emerges from underground, screaming.