Roman may think he still knows me. That I’m the same boy who once followed him into blood and fire without question.
But he’s sadly mistaken. And I’ll make sure he pays dearly for it.
16
ANGIE
Fire eats fast when it’s hungry, and tonight it’s starving.
The flames crawl up the sides of the crates like they’ve been waiting for this moment, like they’ve been watching me carry these hard drives and film canisters around for years, just biding their time for the chance to consume them. The edges of the reels curl black before they catch, the plastic melting with a hiss and a wail, and the smell hits me—burning celluloid and scorched ink and the acrid tang of dying electricity—and it all makes my eyes sting even more than they already were.
I don’t wipe the tears. They’re not shameful. They’re not even sad, not really. They’re just part of it. Part of watching my life up until now get swallowed in sparks and smoke.
Cassian stands a few feet away, arms crossed over that broad chest, his breath fogging steady in the cold. His face is all hard lines and restraint, the way it always is when he’s trying not to feel too much, but I see the flicker in his jaw every time something new cracks and crumbles in the fire. I see the way his eyes track me, not the burning gear, not the flames, but me—like he’s trying to make sense of what I’m doing, and maybe why it’s making his chest rise a little faster than usual.
I pull out the last drive from the bottom of my backpack. This one’s different—sleeker, newer, silver edges dulled from how many times I’ve held it in my hands, stared at it while wondering what it meant. This one has everything: the footage of Cassian when he didn’t know I was filming, the interviews with the villagers who whispered his name like a ghost story, the old Super 8 scans I digitized of maps, places, teeth that weren’t human. This was the crown jewel. My masterpiece.
And I’m going to destroy it.
“Are you sure?” Cassian asks, his voice low, barely there, but it cuts through the snow-drenched silence like thunder in the distance.
I don’t look at him when I speak. I keep my eyes on the fire, because if I look at him, I might lose my nerve. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”
Then I toss it in.
No hesitation. No ceremony.
The flames crackle louder for a second, the plastic sizzling as it twists and melts into nothing, and a part of me goes with it. But I don’t feel hollow. I feel clean. Scared, yes—terrified, even—but also clean. Like I’ve finally cut the cord on a version of myself that was never meant to last.
“You just...” His voice is rougher now. He takes a step forward, then another. “You erased your whole career. Your legacy. Your proof.”
I finally turn to him, slow and deliberate, because he needs to see it on my face, needs to know this isn’t grief. This is choice. This is clarity.
“No,” I say softly, stepping close until I can smell the scent of him—pine and fire and something darker underneath. “I didn’t erase it. I just stopped making it the most important thing.”
He doesn’t speak, and I watch the weight of my words settle into his shoulders like snowfall, quiet and deep. His eyes are fullof conflict, but his body is still, like he’s afraid any movement might break the spell we’ve both been living in since this morning, since Roman’s voice crawled through the speaker and curled cold fingers around Cassian’s throat.
“I didn’t come out here to fall in love with someone,” I say, voice trembling not because I’m unsure, but because it matters. “I didn’t come out here to find him or protect him or give up everything I built for him. But I did. I did all of that because the second I saw you—really saw you—I knew I couldn’t be the girl who walked away.”
I step even closer now, chest brushing his, the heat between us building like pressure under skin, like it’s been waiting for the right moment to crack open.
“You’re my story now,” I whisper.
His breath catches, a short, sharp inhale like he’s been punched in the gut by something he didn’t think could reach him.
And then his hands are on me.
Slow at first, rough palms cradling my jaw like he’s still asking for permission, like he thinks I might pull away, might flinch from the truth of him. But I lean in, press my mouth to his like the world is ending and I finally get to taste the last good thing on Earth.
His kiss is a force of nature. Not violent, not rushed, but consuming—like gravity, like a pull that’s always been there between us and finally gave up pretending otherwise. His mouth is warm and firm, his breath catching against mine as our bodies come together with a desperation that isn’t lust, isn’t even need—it’s something older, something elemental, like finding the missing piece of a language neither of us knew we were born speaking.
I slide my hands under the collar of his coat, fingers finding the skin at the back of his neck, and he shudders against me, likeeven my touch burns. But he doesn’t pull away. He presses in deeper, his hand splaying wide across my spine like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he doesn’t anchor me in place.
“You didn’t have to do this,” he murmurs into my mouth between kisses, his voice ragged and hoarse like it’s scraping against stone. “You didn’t have to burn it all.”
“I wanted to,” I breathe. “For you. For us.”
His forehead presses to mine, and we stand like that in the snow, heat curling between us, breath fogging in the dark, the flames behind us painting the night in shifting gold and orange.
