Page 1 of Flame
Chapter One
Istill remember the first time I ever put the tip of my pen to a sheet of fresh paper and scribbled whatever came to mind. What that felt like. In a word? Clarity. I went from voiceless to limitless. My words had power again, however little it might have been.
Amid the deepest depths of my brother’s obsession and my parents’ indifference, I had an identity all other aspects of my life had stripped away.
I became awriter.
For years it’s been the one thing I’ve always excelled at. Creating. Crafting. Emoting.
And yet, lately, it feels like I’ve run out of the right words. My emotions can’t be wrestled onto paper anymore. Gone is that defining identity, and once again, I’m a blob molded by my life circumstances.
So much for being a writer. I can’t even voice the truth out loud—the event that, in so many ways, led to this present like the first in a series of falling dominoes.
A story that isn’t really mine to tell.
Ironically, I used to imagine what life might be like outside of the cage my past forced me to craft around myself. I just never envisioned this—freedom found in a monster’s lair, far different from the one I grew up fearing.Hisworld is darker, stranger, lonelier…
And in so many ways, hauntingly beautiful.
I’m a moth, ignited by the intoxicating flame that tempted me to fly so near to it. In the aftermath, all I can do is lie on the ashes of my wings, blinking up at a beige ceiling as my brain struggles to reconcile everything that has transpired within the past forty-eight-hours, ending with me alone in the bed of a man I barely know.
Rafe.
The man embodies so many contradictions it’s hard to keep track of them all.
Judging from the coolness of the sheets beside me, I doubt he slept here. I strain my ears, but I don’t pick up any noise or footsteps throughout the rest of the apartment, either. The only clue of his presence I find at all, once I creep from his room and down the hall, is an empty cup on the kitchen counter beside a brown paper bag of leftover takeout from last night.
As I approach it, I happen to glance from one of the many windows at the street below. It’s too early for rush-hour traffic, but several cars dart past at a steady rate—and my heart lurches at the sight of each one. No matter how hard I try to talk myself out of the growing paranoia, I swear every passing vehicle resembles Branden’s.
IsBranden’s. Though it’s only a matter of time before he comes after me. Running was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done where my brother is concerned. He requires the same logic my father drilled into me around his hunting dogs—never turn your back. Never let your guard down.
And, most importantly, never give the beasts a reason to chase.
Not that he has to do much work to find me anyway. I spot my phone resting on the coffee table, though I didn’t put it there. Ignorant of its use as a tracking device, someone even hooked it up to a charger he must have retrieved from my apartment—though he left it off. That little token of kindness isn’t the only one I spy as I rise to my feet and start to pace from room to room.
I spot my shoes beside the door leading downstairs. My toothbrush and toiletries have been left for me on the counter in the bathroom. Three boxes of my belongings sit piled in a distant corner of the hall, rescued from my apartment. Out of consideration, some of my clothing has been neatly folded on the top box for easy access.
That same person probably left my bag within view too. Inside it, I find all those trivial reminders of a life that seems like a stranger’s to me now. A crumpled business card and a battered gold lighter are just meaningless trinkets. Even my journal. Its pages are still filled with old writing, including my draft essay for the Fenwick program—my only hope for continuing school in the fall.
The proposed topic? Describe and conquer your inner demons.
I laugh out loud at the idea of it. How pathetic was that? To pin my entire success on a whim. My “talent.” Scoffing, I flip the book open and scan the pages. All those pretty, carefully penned words read flat. Empty. Useless, emotionless lies. For the first time in my life, I’m numb as I stroke my thumb along a page. There is no spark.
But one person ensured that I wasn’t without this possession anyway—an amount of caring that contrasts sharply with the dark-eyed figure dwelling inside my head. The creature capable of sowing the heavy footsteps I catch advancing up the rickety staircase leading to the apartment’s entrance. I know even before the door opens who is behind it. I can smell him—ash and smoke.
His very presence is heralded by a shift in the air, like a drop in temperature warning of a storm.Rafe.
“You’re awake,” he grunts in acknowledgment while closing the door behind him. He’s wearing a pair of gray sweats and a white beater top—a casual alternative to his usual jeans and black leather. In his hands is another brown paper bag and a faint aroma emanates from it, making my stomach rumble.
“Come here.” With a curt nod, he beckons me into the kitchen where he unloads the contents of his bag on the counter—two steaming breakfast sandwiches wrapped in paper. He hands one to me, claiming the second for himself. As our eyes meet, his expression softens, his lips quirking into a frown.
“You bruise fucking easily, rabbit,” he says, stroking my cheek with his thumb. His eyes travel down to my throat, fully exposed by the wide neckline of the shirt I’m wearing now—an oversized black one of his. The earnest sympathy in his tone makes me stiffen self-consciously. Apart from last night, I have no fresher mental image to compare my appearance to.
I can’t even look in the mirror.
“Is it that bad?” I ask.
“Damn right,” Rafe says, whistling through his teeth. “I doubt even the old ‘sunglasses’ trick will help you, bunny.”
