Prologue
“Fire creates some monsters. Others strike the match themselves.” Cyan MacBrady, 15 years old.
Red and orange lit up the night as I stood on the grass, staring at the flames, feeling the heat prickling my face. Our family home, now a burning funeral pyre. Ma’s porch that she’d painted, the kitchen where we crowded for family dinners.All gone.My eyes moved between the house and my hands, slick with gasoline and blood, wishing it were all a nightmare.
But it wasn’t. I did this myself. The one who lit the blaze. Mam, Da, and Ciara their bodies were inside, being consumed by the inferno. Their names, their voices, everything that happened tonight played on repeat in my mind, never to be forgotten, like nails boring into my brain.
The tears brimming at my lids overflowed as silent grief took hold. I would never see or hear Mam’s soft voice again, or Da, the one who tried to make sense of everything. Ciara, my older sister, who would tease me—she was gone, all three their voices permanently quieted.
“Why?” The word came out of my lips on repeat. This was too much to bear. I would make him pay. I’d collect pound for pound and flesh for flesh. From now on, this agony would be my guide, fueling the hatred in my bones, burning brighter than the flames.
Sirens wailed in the distance, their arrival too fucking late. I pulled my jacket tight, then reached over and tapped my brother Collin’s shoulder, signaling it was time to leave. We turned and walked away from the flames, away from the heat, away from what we’d done. The moral compass my parents drilled into mewasa pile of ash behind me, and all the future held now was vengeance.
One
“Some doors open with a smile. Others with a stare that unravels everything you thought you wanted.”—Aria Boschett.
Lively chatter swirls around me, aligning with the setting sun that paints Crescent Bay gold. The small-town ambiance is charming, I can’t help myself scanning the booths, the banners, the crowd—then remembering Hayden is with me. He strolls beside me, his slim frame and confident stride drawing admiring glances from passersby. He thrives on it, flashing a practiced, easy smile, a Boston city boy to his core.
“When are you heading back to Boston?” I ask.
“Hey, Hayden!” A woman passing by practically purrs his name, her eyes sparkling. Hayden flashes his signature grin, his gaze flickering to her.
As they talk, the scent of popcorn and candied apples fills the crisp autumn air, mixing with the hum of a live band. Vibrant pumpkin streamers dance overhead, the wind tugging at them like playful fingers. Despite my weeks here, Crescent Bay still feels surreal, so different from the electric rush of Chicago. A quaint charm wraps around the town, pulling me into its world.
Hayden’s tug on my hand snaps my attention as he pulls me toward a booth displaying local arts and crafts. “Come, Aria, check this out.”
My eyes lock on a hand-carved wooden dove, the intricate details calling to me. I reach out, tracing my fingers over its lifelike feather wings. “Hayden, look, isn’t it unique? So lifelike.”
He barely spares the dove a glance while adjusting his hair in a nearby mirror. “Nice, but nowhere near as captivating as you.”Why the hell did he pull me over here if he wasn’t interested in the carvings?Even the mirror he’s using has outstanding craftsmanship. The frame has an aged wood look, and the floral and swirling vines speak to the skill of the craftsman. Before I can ask about the dove, he pulls me away again, guiding me deeper into the festival, where the music pulses louder.
“Hayden, you finally made it. Thought you chickened out,” Earl greets him with a slap on his arm. To my surprise, Hayden has accepted Earl’s challenge of a pie-eating contest.
With a quick peck on my cheek, he says, “be right back… babe watch me win this.” Hayden strides toward the makeshift stage, rolling up his sleeves.
“Ladies and gentlemen, prepare for the most delicious battle of the night! May the best pie-eater feast their way to glory, not just a food coma!” The announcer, a rotund man with a jolly grin, rubs his belly. The crowd erupts in laughter and cheers. The announcer moves around, asking each contestant how they plan to eat the win.
Hayden takes the mic. “This is going to be a piece of cake... or pie, in this case.” Groans and chuckles follow. I must admit, the playful side of Hayden is endearing. As the contest begins, Hayden’s focus sharpens, competitive instinct igniting with each enthusiastic forkful. The thick crust crumbles as whipped cream splatters onto his cheekbones and the bib he wore to protect his clothing. He shoots me a triumphant look mid-bite, and I laugh. The contest ends with Hayden raising his fork in victory.
“You see? Even a businessman can dominate a pie-eating contest! Come, try your luck.” The announcer says as Hayden basks in his victory.
The aroma of maple candy drifts over from a nearby vendor, and nostalgia draws me over. Buying a bag, I pop a piece of the maple taffy into my mouth, and the buttery sweetness transports me back to my grandmother’s kitchen. Lazy Saturday mornings. Stacks of golden almond pancakes and warm maple syrup. Her laughter curled around me like a lullaby. The warmth of the memory twists into longing, leaving a guilty ache deep in my chest before a sharp laugh jolts me back. I turn, spotting Hayden and Earl surrounded by a small group. The woman from earlier stands right next to him. This is Hayden; he always seems to draw everyone in.
Turning away from Hayden, I retrace my steps to the craft booth to buy the dove. As I close in on the booth, I see it hasn’t been sold yet. Thanking my lucky stars, I reach for it. But out of nowhere, another much larger hand takes hold of it at the same time. “I saw it first.” I blurt, then I look up, “—ah.” The most striking icy blue-green eyes I’ve ever seen lock onto mine. I can’t look away. The man towers over me, all broad shoulders, arm muscles straining beneath his leather jacket. I cannot help but eye him over, denim clinging to powerful legs. I notice him doing the same; his gaze drags from my face to our hands, both still cradling the wooden dove. His gaze is deliberate, unhurried, searing a path down my body. It lingers just long enough to make my skin prickle, my pulse quicken. A cold thrill cuts through me. Still, I don’t let go. I don’t yield. I hold his gaze. “I touched the dove first. It’s mine.”
“Miss...” The shopkeeper cuts in.
The handsome stranger lifts a hand, silencing him. “Ah, it’s all good, Harry.” Holy Mary. The lilt and rhythm roll over me. He’s Irish, straight out of Dublin, and it suits him. His navy tweed paddy cap sits low on his forehead, only sharpening the hard lines of his face. A neatly trimmed reddish-brown Van Dyke beard frames his mouth; the faint tug at one corner of his lips gives him an edge.
“I think we touched the dove at the same time, lass.” His eyes glint. “Maybe it’s a sign that luck is on your side… or destiny calling us?”
The way he asks it makes my skin prickle. “Maybe a little of both; I’ve always believed the universe nudges us when we least expect it.”Where the hell did those words come from?
His amused grin deepens. “Then how about a game? If Lady Luck’s backing us tonight, let’s see what else this wild night offers.”
I open my mouth to respond. “Aria!”
Hearing Hayden’s voice has me turning away, spotting him searching the crowd. When he locks eyes with me, he strides in my direction.Shit.I spin back to the stranger. But he’s gone. Only the dove remains in my hand.
