Page 46 of Freedom’s Inferno

I’d taken the opposite one, and showered again, changing into a pair of loose-fitting sweat pants and a long-sleeved Under Armor shirt. The compression fabric tugged tight against my skin, hiding the angry scrapes and bruises I’d collected from the bike. I wasn’t in the mood to give Lana any more ammunition.

I sat in one of the oversized armchairs by the window, feet propped on the matching ottoman, my old copy of Dante’s Inferno open in my hands. The cover was frayed, the bottom corner blackened where the fire had licked it all those years ago. I traced the singed edge with my thumb, the familiar text grounding me in a way nothing else could. When I read, the world stopped spinning. Always had.

“Is that what you read for fun?” Lana’s voice pulled me back. She leaned against the doorframe, robe knotted carelessly at her waist, red hair draped over one shoulder.

I didn’t look up right away. “Comfort book.”

She let out a quiet laugh. “Do you find comfort in Hell?”

“Sometimes,” I said, flipping a page. “I took AP Lit in high school. Back then, it used to frustrate me when the teacher would drone on about the symbolism behind the curtains being blue, or what made a character a Christ figure.” I smiled, wistfully. “Then, in college, I took a whole course on Dante. My professor taught me to read between the lines, to see the symmetry in suffering, and I loved the challenge in that. Every sin echoing itself in its own ruin… I find comfort in the order. The kind of order the real world doesn’t provide.”

Lana cocked her head to the side, looking at me thoughtfully.

I smirked, meeting her eyes over the rim of the book. “Tell me, Lucky Lana, are you the Christ figure in your story?”

She made a noise somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “If I am, the part was poorly cast.” Her gaze dropped to the book. “What happened to it?”

“What?”

She pointed at the charred corner. “Your Inferno looks like it’s been through one.” Her brow arched. “What, did you rescue it from a book burning?”

Her tone carried humor, but it didn’t land right.

My fingers curled tighter around the pages, thumb sliding protectively over the scarred leather. “Something like that.”

She caught the edge in my tone, straightening. “It was a joke.”

“Yeah, I got that.”

The silence that followed wasn’t comfortable. It pressed between us, thick enough to choke on.

Lana’s eyes flicked from the ruined cover to my left wrist, as if she could see the burn scar hidden beneath my sleeve. She worked to fit the pieces together and, for a moment, she looked horrified. Maybe even embarrassed. The expression was fleeting, but I saw it.

Her features hardened, shoulders drawing back. “You really don’t do casual, do you?”

“I don’t do meaningless.”

She sighed, shaking her head. “You really are impossible.”

“And yet,” I said, glancing up. “You’re still here. Is there something I can help you with, Lana?”

“Yeah,” she said, voice laced with irritation. “You can get some therapy.”

I snorted, gripping the arms of the chair as I shoved myself up with greater difficulty than anticipated. Every muscle protested, my entire body stiff and bruised. “That sounds like projection,” I said, placing my book on the end table.

Her eyes flashed. “Mr. Sterling,” she drawled, voice thick with mock reproach. “You wound me.”

“Funny,” I said, moving to close the gap between us. “I’m the only one bleeding.”

Something cracked between us then—sharp, electric, dangerous. The air changed; words stopped being weapons and became something heavier.

She stepped closer, but I didn’t move.

Every breath between us felt like a dare. We’d been running on adrenaline for days. Fire, smoke, blood, fear, all of it burned into my nerves until I couldn’t tell where survival ended and something darker began. The energy had nowhere to go. It buzzed under my skin like static, a current searching for ground.

Every glance from her felt like a collision. Every word was an argument waiting to happen. Affection had nothing to do with it. Physics did. Pressure meeting pressure until something had to give.

Lana wore her strength like armor, sharp edges meant to wound before they could be touched, but I’d seen the cracks. I paid attention in the moments when she thought no one was watching. I heard the tremor in her voice when she tried too hard to sound unbothered.