51. Zeke
Zeke
T he voices are long gone.
So is the porch.
So is the house.
I’m already deep in the trees—far from the chaos, the tension, the way Trace nearly snapped. Good. Let them spin out in that house. Let them suffocate on whatever mess they just made.
The woods were silent, save for the crunch of my boots and the low pulse of crickets whispering warnings. The moon fell through the canopy, cold and thin, like a blade hanging overhead.
I li a cigarette.
Smoked it like it’s the only thing I trust.
Trace almost hit me. Should’ve let him. Might’ve felt good to bleed a little. God knows something’s coming—we all feel it—and pain might be the only thing that still makes sense.
But this isn’t about Trace.
It’s never been about Trace.
It’s her.
Scarlett Monroe.
The storm wrapped in bare skin and tequila and fire.
She kissed me like she remembered. Like some buried part of her had been clawing toward the surface all this time, waiting for a moment like that to detonate. There was too much heat in it to be for show.
It wasn’t a game.
Not to me.
She’s changing. Uncoiling. Not fully awake yet, but close.
And when she does…
I flicked the cigarette into the brush and crushed it with my heel.
They think she’s just spiraling.
They’re wrong.
She’s aligning.
The blood in her veins? It’s not just hers. It’s legacy. War. Power no one’s prepared for. Not even her.
But I am.
She’s the heir, whether they want to admit it or not. And if they keep treating her like a wildcard, if they keep fucking around trying to control her—
She’s going to burn this whole game to the ground.
And I’ll be right there, watching it fall.
Because someone has to be ready when the girl with fire in her blood finally realizes she’s the goddamn flame.