Shaking.
Burning like gasoline.
And she thinks she’s angry now?
Just fucking wait.
I step out of the tree-line finally, slow and silent, muscles relaxed, breath steady. My boots crush a few dead leaves beneath me, breaking the last thread of stillness around us.
I look back at the house.
Warm lights glowing through glass.
A perfect little life wrapped in security codes and curated safety.
And inside—Scarlett pacing like she’s trying to climb out of her own skin.
Noah will wake up soon.
He’ll see her shaken.
He’ll ask questions she’ll lie through.
And she will lie because she doesn’t want him to know.
Not about me.
Not about the letters.
Not about the ghost she felt beside her bed.
Not about the way she ran into the woods looking for a man she claims she hates.
She won’t tell him.
But she’ll tell me.
One way or another.
I slip back into the deeper shadows, hands in my pockets, heart slow and steady like a predator that’s already chosen its next step.
“Rage looks good on you, little sister,” I murmur, voice dark, amused. The wind swallows my words. “But I’m not done with you yet.”
I turn away from the house.
Not retreating.
Repositioning.
Planning.
Every step is easy.
Every breath is clear.
Because for the first time in years, everything feels exactly where it should be.
She’s awake.
