Page 35 of Freedom’s Inferno

The doorknob rattled. “Boy? What’re you doing in there?” The voice was slurred, soaked through with liquor and spite.

Charles froze, breathing through his mouth.

The bolt was on the outside of his door, his father’s way of keeping him locked in when he wanted silence. The latch scraped, and the door swung open.

His father filled the frame, broad-shouldered, eyes glassy and wild. His gaze flicked to the candle still burning on the nightstand, and his face hardened. The back of the man’s hand came before the sound did.

Charles fell back, book flying from his arms as he clasped his face.

The candle toppled with the force of the hardcover, rolling across the table and falling to the floor. The shag carpet caught the moment the flame touched it.

“Jesus Christ,” his father barked, swiping at it with his foot. “Look what you made me do!”

The movement sent the candle rolling under the curtain, flames already licking up the fabric in ribbons of gold and orange. The small room went hot.

Charles stumbled back, coughing, the smoke already clawing at his lungs. His father cursed and swung at the flames, but he was drunk and slow.

That was when the boy saw his book lying on the floor, the cover catching. Without thinking, he lunged, fingers closing around the tome. Fire bit at his wrist, biting deep, but the pain took a back seat to the rush of adrenaline that pumped through his veins. He smacked the book against his leg until the flame died, the smell of his own burned flesh sharp and metallic in the air.

“Get me the fire extinguisher, you dumb bastard!” his father shouted.

Something long beaten down snapped free, and Charles ran. He slammed the door and threw the bolt down, the click echoing like a gunshot. Nothing existed but the hush of his own breathing and the low roar of the fire devouring what it could reach. The smoke crept through the crack under the door, ghostly and sinister.

Then came the pounding. “Open the goddamn door!” His father’s voice sounded more human than he’d heard it before, still demanding but the pitch was different. Desperate. “Son, please!”

Charles jolted with the shriek of the fire alarm, red light pulsing against the smoke until the world turned crimson. He could barely see his own hands. He stood there, rooted to the spot, listening to his father pleading.

Without consciously making the choice, he found himself turning away. One step, then another, carried him down the stairs and out the front door. The cold air called to him like a promise and he thought he might fall to his knees. The book was still clutched in his hands, charred but salvageable.

He stared up at the stars. They winked down at him, indifferent and bright. The house behind him crackled and moaned, but he didn’t look back. He thought he was walking into freedom, but he didn’t know then that he was only trading one prison for another. He didn’t know the bellow of fire would follow him forever, or that every flicker of light would remind him of a door he never opened.

Chapter 15

Lana

The memory of the last several hours filtered through my mind in a blur: Blackwell Sterling consumed in a fiery blaze, what once stood as a monument to wealth and power, now reduced to ash and ruin.

Providing an explanation to the police about what we were doing there wasn’t difficult; we owned the building, and we were handling the end of the year audit when we smelled smoke. The officer took down our information and assured us he’d call with an update once the fire marshal completed his investigation.

I was certain the report would reveal nothing more than a tragic accident. Costa was smart enough to cover his ass. Maybe he had a few people in high places on his payroll, but he did this. The fire spoke in a language I understood too well. A single sentence scorched into the night: return the money, or watch your world burn.

I held my breath the entire ride back. Dozing off wasn’t a risk this time, not with the adrenaline coursing through my veins. My body shook uncontrollably against the pummel of wind that tore at me mercilessly. I held onto Charlie as if I could disappear inside of him, using him as a shield against the elements.

The engine finally went quiet beneath us, a slow ache unfurling in my thighs—a reminder of how tightly I’d clung to the machine and to him. The only upside of the ride was that the wind had done a thorough job of drying us out.

Small mercies.

Charlie swung his leg off the bike with a grunt, the motion taut with exhaustion. The night air caught the faint curl of smoke from the exhaust, still hot and hissing. Charlie shook out his wrists like he was trying to fling the pain away, flexing his fingers once, twice.

That’s when I saw it, the gauze on his left hand, soaked through, the faint crimson spreading beneath the weave. The burn had to be bad; the blisters were already swelling beneath the wrapping, angry and wet. He must’ve felt it the whole ride, throttling that bike like pain was a debt he owed himself.

He stood there in the glow of the porch lights, breathing hard, shoulders tight, hand trembling as he tucked it against his jacket like he could hide it from me.

I was overcome with the urge to demand he let me see it. I wanted to tell him he was an idiot for pushing himself that hard, for insisting we take the bike in the first place, but the words lodged somewhere between my ribs and my throat. Instead, I swallowed the strange ache that came with watching someone hurt and pretending I didn’t care.

“You’re bleeding,” I said, crossing my arms and ignoring the dull throb still pulsing through my own legs.

He didn’t even glance down. “Yeah. It happens. I’m a big boy.”