Page 128 of Hymns of the Broken
“Ours,” I echo, voice raw. “But don’t get it twisted—I’m not backing down. I’ll give her everything I’ve got. Every damn time.”
He finally looks at me, fire in his eyes—but it’s not just for me. It’s for her. For whatever the hell we’re about to become.
“Don’t fuck it up, Riot,” Jasper says, laced with threat.
I smirk back, steady. “Right back at you, Reign.”
We stand there, caught between enemies and something closer, breathing the same electric air.
This thing could destroy us.
But it might be the only way we all survive.
SAWYER
After the garage. After Macee’s questions. I need air. Space. Something that feels like sanity.
My feet carry me on autopilot, padding over the dark hardwood. The house feels alive—like it’s breathing around me—every tall wall and cathedral ceiling heavy with echoes. Sunlight slants through narrow windows, painting the stone floors in stripes that look more like scars than warmth. It’s beautiful here. But the beauty that promises secrets.
I pause at a window, fingertips pressing against the cool glass. Outside, the yard stretches wide—wild but manicured, like the woods are always one step from swallowing it whole. Ivy climbs the stone walls. Shadows coil thick beneath the old oaks.
It’s unsettling. Haunted, almost. Like every inch remembers something it won’t share.
And then I see it.
A figure.
Standing at the tree line. Still. Watching.
Every muscle seizes. My lungs forget how to work. Panic sparks fast and electric, my fingers curling hard against the glass, desperate for proof I’m not imagining this.
I blink. Once. Twice.
Gone.
The yard is empty. Shadows unbroken. Not even a breeze stirs the branches.
My pulse hammers in my ears. I force out a shaky breath. It’s nothing. Just my brain. Just old ghosts refusing to stay buried.
Still, I back away from the window. Each step heavier as the stone floors give way to thick, antique rugs that swallow my footsteps. The light changes too—softer, warmer, but older. Like I’ve stepped into someone else’s memories.
Black-and-white photographs line the walls. Faces unsmiling, eyes hollow. The silence here feels guarded, and I breathe quieter, afraid to disturb it.
At the end of the hall, a door sits ajar. The hinges groan when I push it open.
Inside, it’s music and memory. Guitars lean against the wall, battered but cherished. A piano waits in the corner, keys yellowed and scarred with ink stains. Shelves sagunder notebooks and lyric sheets. Studio headphones sprawl across the desk.
Gold and platinum records crowd one wall, gleaming like trophies, though the shine feels heavy—earned in blood and sleepless nights.
A couch slumps against the far wall, old leather worn soft. The air carries sweat, cedar, and the ghosts of a thousand midnight songs.
I breathe in slowly, chest loosening just a little.
But the back of my neck prickles, anyway.
I don’t know if it’s because this room feels like Jasper—private, dangerous, alive—or because I’m still haunted by what I saw outside.
Or what I think I saw.
