I told myself this was holy anger. That the fire surging in me was His will, not mine. But even I could feel the edges of that lie.
The doorknob turned.
I stepped back into shadow, eyes on the sliver of light spilling out as the door opened. They didn’t see me.
She walked out beside him, small but unbowed, shoulders squared, her chin lifted like she was proud of what she’d become. Proud of her sin. The scar I gave her caught in the low light—evidence of who owned her. A brand. A reminder of who she truly belonged to.
Outside, the motorcycle came to life with a roar. She slid onto the back of it, arms winding around him like some common whore. Like he hadn’t stolen what was never his to take.
I followed in silence. Truck lights off. Distance kept. My grip on the wheel tight enough to ache. Her hair whipped in the wind, wild and defiant, her body pressed close to his, moving with him like she was built for it.
They left the main road, gravel crunching beneath their tires as trees swallowed them whole.
I stopped.
Watched their tail light disappear into the dark.
My pulse calmed.
The fire cooled, not extinguished—just sharpened. Focused. Became something more than fury. Became purpose.
The Flame had tested me long enough. It had stripped the weakness, laid bare the truth.
She thought she could leave. Thought she could love another.
But she was still mine. Still chosen.
And I would bring her home.
***
I DIDN’T DRIVEstraight back to the motel. The night was too alive for sleep, too loud with memory. The road hummed beneath the tires, and the ghost of the motorcycle’s taillight still burned behind my eyes, a red smear I couldn’t shake.
When I finally stopped, it was at the same forgotten gas station I’d used before—the one with the broken sign and the pay phone that still worked if you hit the side of it just right. Some places refuse to die. They linger. Waiting.
I stepped out of the truck and let the damp, heavy air settle over me. From my pocket, I pulled my phone and a folded scrap of paper. One number. No name. There never was one.
The phone rang twice.
“Yeah?” The voice on the other end was low, cautious.
“It’s me,” I said.
Silence. Then, tighter this time, “You shouldn’t be calling.”
“I told you I would,” I replied evenly. “When it was time.”
“You said it was over.”
I smiled faintly, watching my breath fog the glass. “It’s never over, you will always serve the Flame.”
The line stayed quiet long enough for me to hear the hum of the fluorescent light above the the forgotten phone booth, the steady buzz of insects throwing themselves against the glass like they thought pain might lead to freedom.
Finally, he spoke. “What do you need?”
“She’s with him,” I said. “The one who pulled her out. He’s getting too close.”
“Are you sure she’s worth it?”
