Her eyes widen. Her lips part. She glances at the canister, then back at me. I don’t wait. I go back to the mission.
Typing the code into the smart lock feels like I only did this yesterday. Like it hasn’t been more than half a fucking year.
The first step inside hits like a fist to the gut. But I can’t falter. I can’t let her see how much it’s killing me. I do this because she needs me to.
I pour gasoline over every surface on the first floor, every inch a memory of us that’s about to burn to ash. Erased. Like we never fucking existed. My old hoodie with the bird on the shoulder, the one I gave Adora in the dungeon, is draped over the back of the couch, and I make sure to drench it.
I stand in the living room for a few seconds, breathing it in, making peace with the fact that what’s left of us will be gone. Then I drag a line of gas right up to Adora’s feet.
She moved closer — probably watching me through the front door — but didn't come in. Her eyes follow my every step like she’s in a trance.
“Found matches in the kitchen,” I say, pulling the box from my pocket and holding it out. “You wanna do it? Or me?”
She takes the box without a word, studies it, then — to my complete surprise — smiles. She immediately strikes a match, lights it, and drops it onto the ground.
The fire doesn’t start slow. It blazes. Like it was waiting for this moment, and Adora just opened its cage.
I pull her back a few steps and let her watch. She’s still smiling, but it looks a little unhinged now. I have a weird feeling that she’s barely holding herself back from bursting into evil laughter. Fuck, I’d rebuild and burn this place to the ground a thousand times over if that’s what she needs.
Before I can make sense of her reaction, she stoops, grabs a jagged rock from the ground, and hurls it straight at a window. The glass explodes in a burst of orange light and raining shards, and the flames roar like she just fed them all her fury. Her smile stretches, wild and unrestrained. Almost feral.
She doesn’t hesitate. Another rock, another throw. It hits the door with a dull, heavy thud and tumbles into the fire. A scream tears out of her, raw and guttural. Then another. And another. Louder each time, until it’s impossible to tell if she’s laughing or crying or both.
Her voice cracks, but her body doesn’t stop moving. Every throw is an exorcism, every scream a wound tearing open. The fire eats her noise and spits it back in higher flames and heat. She’s shaking now, breath coming in ragged bursts, but the smilestays. It’s the kind of smile that comes when pain has nowhere else to go.
For a long moment, all I can do is watch her, lit by the blaze. A silhouette of grief and anger, laughing into the inferno, daring it to fight her rage.
I let her have it for a minute, but even if I hate to, I have to cut it short.
“Take a picture if you need to,” I say, stopping her from grabbing another rock. “But we have to go. Now. Or we’ll both be in big trouble.”
“Shit,” her eyes snap to mine, a little horrified. “You’re right,” she gasps, and instantly bolts for the van.
“I’ll drive,” I say, cutting in front and jumping into the driver’s seat. She glares but doesn’t argue, hustling to the passenger side. Thank fuck. She’s a terrible fucking driver.
The empty canister flies into the back before I fire up the engine. We’re barely two minutes down the road when she turns to me, shaking and breathless.
“Why are you driving so slow?” she asks, voice pitched high. “Go faster or someone will catch us!”
“First of all, no one’s chasing us,” I grin, glancing over. “Second, you don’t commit a misdemeanor while you’re committing a felony. That’s your first lesson. Welcome to the criminal world.”
“Oh, God,” she chokes out. “I’m a criminal now, aren’t I? And they’ll know the fire was intentional. I don’t want to go to prison. I don’t wantyouto go to prison either.Not again.” Her voice keeps climbing. “Oh, shit. Oh, shit.”
“Breathe, Adora,” I say, low and steady. “They’ll know it was intentional. They won’t know who did it. Someone will inform you of the fire, and you’ll just have to keep calm. That’s it. Tell them your biker husband has enemies. I’ll handle the rest.”
She bites her lip, like she’s thinking it over, then nods slowly. “Okay, I can do that. And it’sex-husband,” she snaps.
“Not for a few more months until the court signs off, it’s not,” I murmur, suddenly irritated.
“That’s just a formality,” she spits, and crosses her arms over her chest.
A few seconds later, she sighs deeply and looks back at me. “You put a fucking tracker inside my body, Ghost. And left it there all this time. Don’t think I forgot about that.”
My grip tightens on the steering wheel, knuckles going white. “It was a precaution. In case you tried to run.”
“That was before,” she snaps, pointing a finger at me. “What about all these other months? You just can’t give up control over my life, can you?”
“It’s not about control,” I murmur, pulling into a turnout. I can’t drive while having this conversation.
