Page 31 of Beneath Scarred Vows
My smoke detectors.
Shit, it's a fire.
11
KATERINA
It's been over an hour and Chris is nowhere to be found. He was everywhere and now nowhere. He's either painted himself to look like the wall, or he's left. I hope it's the latter.
I'm kind of hungry, so I decide to head into the kitchen. It's huge, and it's empty—not a staff person in sight. I look around and decide it would be fun to cook something. I sayfunbecause normally I'm given food, but sometimes at my uncle's I'd make something easy like an omelette or sautéd veggies. Just little action that made me feel good.
The kitchen is massive—like everything in this house. Stainless steel appliances. Pristine counters that look untouched.
And while I'm a little nervous being in Ares's kitchen, I think I can figure it out. Ten minutes later, I've got some ingredients on the island, and I'm bent over, sleeves rolled up, figuring out how to turn on the front burner I need.
Once I get the flame on, I place a pan over the burner, add some oil, and turn around to prepare some food.
I'm chopping onions when something hisses behind me. I turn toward the stove, where the oil in the pan suddenly spits, loud and angry. The flame catches. Just for a second.
But that second is enough.
The fire leaps—small, but sharp. Yellow flames licking at the air like it's hungry.
Something inside me short circuits.
I freeze. My breath catches in my throat. My fingers curl around the handle of the knife, knuckles white, the half-chopped onion forgotten.
The small flame dances around the edge of the pan, feeding on drops of oil. It's nothing—barely larger than a candle flame. Easily extinguished. I know this.
My mind knows this.
My body doesn't.
"Move," I whisper to myself, but I might as well be made of stone.
The acrid scent of hot oil fills my nostrils. Then smoke—thin wisps at first, then thicker. The soft crackle of the flame grows louder in my ears until it's the only thing I can hear.
And it's not just a sound anymore. It's a roar.
The heat prickles against my skin, though I'm standing feet away. But it's not this heat I feel—it's another. Hotter. Fiercer. From years ago.
I blink, and I'm not in Ares's kitchen anymore. I'm fourteen, in my hallway standing among the inferno. The heat scorching myface—my right side burning as if someone's pressed a hot iron to my skin, and everything is chaos.
I'm stretching my hand out. If I can just reach the doorknob?—
The knife clatters to the floor, yanking me back to the present. The kitchen swims in and out of focus. My chest constricts. I can't breathe.
I need to move. Need to put out the fire. Need to do something.
But I'm trapped between two realities—Ares's kitchen and that burning hallway—and I can't escape either.
The oil in the pan pops again, sending another flare upward. A towel lies on the counter next to the stove. Too close.
The flame crawls to it, and just like that night, the fire grows.
More smoke rises, and suddenly a piercing alarm rips through the kitchen. It startles me, and I press my hands to my ears, hoping to silence it, but it doesn't help—it's as if it's ringing in my head.
"I'm sorry," I whisper, unsure if I'm talking to the family I couldn't save or to Ares, whose kitchen I'm about to burn down.
