Page 93 of Rescuing Ember

Consciousness returnswith the click of expensive shoes on concrete floors. Each step echoes, deliberate and calculated, a metronome of my impending suffering. My body throbs, every breath a blade slipping between broken ribs, twisting with each inhale. Blood trickles down my chin, falling to the floor in a slow, steady rhythm.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The scent of Wolfe’s cologne cuts through the stale air, cloying and nauseating. It stirs something deep—a buried memory, jagged and raw, that unfurls in the back of my mind. Years ago, that same scent mingled with smoke and screams.

“Do you remember the group home in Queens?” His voice slices through the fog of pain, cool and detached. “St. Catherine’s, wasn’t it? Such a—pivotal moment in your young life.”

Ice forms in my veins. The scent, the voice… They click together like mismatched puzzle pieces that suddenly snap into focus. Memories assault me: the crackle of flames, smoke thick in the air, small hands clutching mine as we stumbled through the choking darkness of smoke-filled hallways.

“You were there.” The words are torn from my throat, my lips split and raw. “That night, with the fire?—”

“Not just that night, my little flame.” Wolfe’s fingers ghost along my jaw, his touch as cold and possessive as his smile.

I jerk away, and agony blazes across my battered body, fresh and unforgiving. His grin widens, a predator’s satisfaction.

“I watched you for months. Such potential, such raw survival instinct. You were to be my crowning achievement.”

All those kids who disappeared, the ones who vanished without a trace—tiny faces flash through my mind, names I forced myself to forget.

“Those children were mine,” he continues, reading my thoughts with chilling ease. His voice carries a note of twisted pride that turns my stomach. “Each one carefully selected, groomed for greatness. The lost ones, the forgotten ones—they make the best soldiers. No attachments. No one to miss them. They’re desperate for someone to step in and give them purpose.”

He circles me, each step methodical, his gaze a palpable weight on my broken form. “But you…” His voice hardens, the malice beneath the veneer slipping free. “You ruined everything. Led them right out the back door while the building burned. Quite the little hero.”

The matches… The small box I discovered beneath my mattress. I never knew where they came from, but it didn’t matter. I lit so many matches, captivated by the flames—their flickering dance, the heat that promised both destruction and safety. Memories crash over me, disjointed and blinding.

“They weren’t just matches, were they?”

Wolfe laughs, sharp as breaking glass. “Finally putting it together, are we? They were meant to teach obedience, to show the consequences of defiance. A taste of pain. A reminder of powerlessness.” His eyes glitter, hungry and cruel. “Instead, youturned them into tools of rebellion. You taught the others to do the same.”

The images return, unbidden: me, showing the younger ones how to strike a match quietly and time the small fires for maximum distraction.

When I was younger, I lit fires to save myself and others from abuse. Each blaze got me out of an abusive foster home, only to be dropped into something worse. I taught the little kids how fire could save them, too. We thought we were so clever, so brave.

“Years of careful planning,” Wolfe snarls, the restraint in his voice shredding. “Years of patiently building my operation, selecting the perfect candidates. And then you—a scrawny, street-smart nobody—dismantled it all in one night.”

He leans in, his breath hot against my ear, a sick parody of intimacy. “Did you ever wonder why no one came looking? Why the system conveniently lost track of you? I had plans for you, little flame. Glorious plans.”

His fingers trace the old burn scar along my collarbone, and bile rises in my throat.

“This mark—your first lesson in defiance. Do you remember? The day you refused to hurt the new girl and took her punishment instead.”

The memory slams into me, vivid and unrelenting. The searing pain, the sharp tang of charred skin. The satisfaction that came with knowing she got away, even if it cost me everything.

“You could have been magnificent,” Wolfe whispers, a wistful note in his voice that makes my skin crawl. “My perfect weapon, forged in fire and pain.” His grip tightens abruptly, fingers digging into my flesh. “Instead, you became a symbol of resistance. The others whispered your name like a prayer. The girl who escaped. The one who fought back.”

He releases me with a rough shove, stepping back to straighten his jacket. “But fate has a sense of humor. Here you are, right back where you belong. And this time…” His smile stretches, sharp and predatory. “There’s so much more at stake this time than your survival.”

His words hang in the air like smoke—thick, choking, inescapable. Everything I thought I knew about my past shifts, twisting into something too horrific to comprehend. I wasn’t just a victim of the system. I was chosen.

Targeted.

Groomed.

And somehow, impossibly, I’m back in his grasp.

Wolfe adjusts his cuffs with meticulous precision, droplets of my blood scattering from his sleeve—small, crimson spots staining pristine white. Even through swollen eyes, I track his every movement, every nerve in my body screaming with the knowledge that danger stands inches away.

“But the past is the past,” Wolfe says, his voice soft, almost mocking. “What matters now is the future. Your future, specifically.” He reaches into his pocket, withdrawing something small and rectangular. A phone. “And his.”

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