Page 149 of Knot Baked Out For This
“Why?”
He simply smirks.
That should be enough to tell me I’m shortly going to find out.
CHAPTER 27
Burning The Past At Dawn
~LUCA~
Revenge is a dish best served with theatrical flair and a sunrise backdrop, apparently.
"Holy shit!" Hazel swears, the words ripped from her as I whip the reins, urging Storm faster up the mountain path. Her arms tighten around my waist, fingers digging into my shirt, and her shrieked giggles mix with "Woohoo!" as we fly over familiar terrain.
This is what joy sounds like. Not the careful, measured happiness she's been allowing herself, but real, uncensored, profanity-laced joy.
Thank god it's early—barely 5:30 now—because this path is usually crawling with hikers who'd definitely have opinions about horseback riding at breakneck speed. But I know this will empower her, this reminder that she can hold on tight and trust someone else to guide her somewhere beautiful.
Storm knows this path by heart, has made this climb a hundred times, but never carrying something this precious. Hazel's body pressed against my back, her breath hot against my neck when she laughs, the vanilla-cinnamon scent of her mixing with morning air and leather and possibility.
We reach the top just as the sky starts thinking about dawn, that purple-gray moment before the world remembers color exists. The clearing spreads before us—grass still wet with dew, wooden posts we installed years ago for this exact purpose, and the view that makes everyone who sees it reconsider their atheism.
I dismount first, then turn to help her down, and my brain short-circuits for a moment.
Jesus Christ.
She's changed clothes. Somewhere between the rose burning and now, she's transformed.
Gone is the oversized sweater, replaced with one of the new pieces from our shopping spree—a deep green dress that clings to every curve she's been hiding, showing the silhouette of a body that could start wars. The stockings she’s wearing adds the touch of sexiness and practicality.
Her hair falls in waves instead of the usual messy bun, and she's touched up her makeup, just enough to highlight those hazel eyes that can't decide if they're green or gold.
This is her. The woman who wore purple dresses and owned her beauty.
After our wild ride, she's exhilarated—eyes sparkling with excitement instead of tears, cheeks flushed from wind and adrenaline instead of crying, looking alive in a way that makes my chest tight.
"That was insane!" she breathes, hands still shaking slightly from the ride.
"That was just the warm-up."
I give Storm a pat, promising her extra oats later, getting a pleased neigh in response.
Then I grab the bag containing the last bouquet and take Hazel's hand.
"Come on."
She follows, trusting, and I lead her to the cliff edge where the fire pit waits. Watch her face as she processes what she's seeing.
"Luca..." Her voice goes quiet, shocked. "Is that...?"
The pit is full. Every rose, every "gift," every unwanted reminder that's appeared at her door for the last two weeks.
I've been collecting them, storing them, waiting for this moment.
"You knew." It's not a question. "You knew and you... collected them?"
I nod once, gesturing at the bagged roses in my hand. "Add it to the pile."
