Chapter 131
Chapter 131
GRAYSON
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“Grayson, stop! Where the hell do you think you’re doing!?” My boots pounded the dirt as I stormed toward the pack storage, fists clenched, blood roaring in my ears.
Fuel. That’s all I needed.
“Fuck this,” I muttered under my breath, shoving the rusty door open.
“Grayson!” Pierce’s voice echoed behind me, shaky but sharp. “You can’t just–damn it, what are you….tell me what you saw!”
“She’s gone, Pierce! Gone!” I shoved a crate out of the way, wood splintering under my palms. “Her body–it’s just… gone now. Blood. Everywhere.”
Pierce grabbed my arm, his grip shaky. “Who’s gone? What the hell are you talking about?”
“Jessica” I roared, yanking free. “I saw her and she’s dead!”
His face went pale. “What? How-”
“Don’t!” I snarled, slamming another crate to the ground. “Don’t fucking ask me how. I saw her. Blood soaked the ground. Her body -ripped apart. Gone.”
Cold the
I grabbed a can of fuel, the metal cold against my hand. “And now? I’m burning this whole damn place to the ground.”
“Grayson, you’re out of your mind!” Pierce stepped in front of me, arms wide. “This doesn’t solve anything!”
“Move, Pierce.” My voice was low, a growl from deep in my chest.
“Look around you!” His eyes darted to the bodies sprawled in the dirt–our people, broken and lifeless.” The pack is all dead and now what? You’re just going to burn them? Is that it huh?!”
I shoved past him, my claws half–extended, my wolf barely under the surface. “You think I care about plans? They’re dead. She’s dead. And this place-“I kicked the crate, sending it flying. “-this hellhole deserves to burn.”
Pierce grabbed my arm, his grip tight. “You’re not thinking straight!”
I spun on him, teeth bared, my breath hot and ragged. “Let. Go.” My voice was a snarl, feral, like the predator I was.
He fraze, something flickering in his eyes–fear, maybe. Good. He finally dropped his hand.
Tunscrewed the fuel cap, the smell sharp and acrid. “If you’re not gonna help, then get out of my way.”
Pierce stood there, jaw clenched, but he didn’t move. “You really think this is what she’d want?”
I paused, the can in my hand trembling “She’s not here to tell me, is she?” I poured the fuel, the liquid splashing over the ground, the crates, the bodies. Everything
I paused, the can in my hand trembling “She’s not here to tell me, is she?” I poured the fuel, the liquid splashing over the ground, the crates, the bodies. Everything.
My wolf howled inside me, furious, broken. This pack–this damn pack–ruined everything. They took her. They took ‘everything“.
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My claws dug into the can, the metal crumpling like paper.
Blood. Smoke. Death. That’s all this place deserved.
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I kept pouring, the liquid pooling around the bodies, soaking into the dirt. “You think I care about the mess I’m making?” I snarled, more to myself than to Pierce. “They’re dead. She’s dead. Let it all burn.”
The liquid keeps splashing, and I can’t stop my hand. My arm’s moving on instinct now, shaking, my breath hitching every few seconds like I’m forgetting how to fucking breathe. My eyes sting. Not from the fumes. From something worse. Something I can’t claw out of my chest.
I drag the can across the floor, letting the trail coat everything–wood, limbs, dirt, the shattered ribcage half–buried in ash. A pup. I don’t even look away. Don’t blink.
I already saw her like that.
“Grayson.” Pierce’s voice cracks. “Please. Don’t do this.”
I throw the empty can to the ground. It clatters uselessly. My hand shakes when I reach for the next one. I miss the handle twice. My claws are out now. I can’t retract them. My wolf’s too close to the surface–howling, scratching, snarling inside me like if I just dig deep enough, I’ll find her in there.
I twist the cap open and the smell hits me full force–sharp, nauseating, familiar. It’s the same shit we used when we burned the rogue dens. The smell of war. The smell of punishment.
I douse the rest of it. Let it soak through every inch of this goddamn cursed place.
Then I stop. Just stand there, m
chest heaving, my fingers twitching like they don’t know what to do without violence.
“You saw a vision,” Pierce tries again. “It could’ve been a trick. Wolfsbane, trauma, stress–Grayson, you don’t know if she’s-”
“Don’t.” My voice is hoarse, barely sound anymore. “Don’t say it. Don’t give me hope.”
He’s quiet. Good. I don’t want hope. Hope is what got her taken. Hope is what got me weak. Hope is for people who still have something left to lose.
1 reach into my jacket, grab the lighter from the inside pocket. It’s old. Black. My father’s. I flick it once, twice. My hand won’t stop shaking It clicks uselessly.
Then it catches.
A small flame.
I crouch low, stare at it. Watch it dance over the metal. It reflects in the blood pooled beneath my boots. And for one second–just one–1 see her face in the slick red mess.
Jess.
Baby,please.
I closed my eyes and for the first time, I found myself uttering a prayer. “Baby,” I whisper, voice rasping, breaking, “please be alive
for me.”
A sound comes out of me I don’t recognize. Like something inside me finally split the rest of the way open. I try to swallow it, try to
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stay upright, but I can’t. I fucking can’t.
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My shoulders shake. I press my forehead to the ground. My chest convulses and I’m there, spilling tears for her–ugly, silent, endless tears–because of how much pain I’ve put her through. Because I wasn’t there. Because I fucking failed her.
I squeeze my eyes shut, fists digging into the dirt until my claws break skin, but it doesn’t ground me. Nothing does. My wolf claws at my insides, pacing, growling, howling, because she’s his too, and we lost her. We fucking lost her.
“Moon goddess,” I choke, not even knowing why I say it–like she listens, like she gives a shit about wolves like me. “I know I’m not your chosen, I know I’m not… I’m not the most benevolent man on earth but why–why the fuck is this happening to us?”
My voice snaps apart again, raw and shaking. My ribs hurt from how hard I’m breathing, like I’m trying to pull oxygen from a world that doesn’t want me in it anymore. My whole body feels too heavy for the ground to hold.
And then the light shifts.
It’s barely anything at first. Just the edge of something pale brushing the ground. I blink through the sting in my eyes, my body too spent to move. But when I tilt my head up, I see it.
The moon.
A crescent slice of silver in the sky, caught between clouds and smoke.
It spills light across the ruin–across the crates, the dead, the fuel–soaked dirt–and it hits me.
Jess always said the crescent felt like a promise. Something sharp but growing. Something not done yet.
And it cuts me now, that light. Cuts through the blood on my face and the dirt in my lungs and the hopelessness chewing through
my spine.
I stare at it. I stare and stare, and I swear for a second I feel her in it.
I rise. Slowly. Shaking. But I rise.
Because if there’s even a chance that crescent means what she used to say it meant, then she’s out there. Somewhere. Still breathing
And if she is—if she’s still fighting–then I swear to every god and moon and grave that I’ll find her.
Even if I have to burn the entire fucking world to do it.
I reach for the lighter.
My fingers are stiff. Raw. I scraped them open dragging bodies. Shoving crates. Pouring the fuel. They stick to the metal like it belongs to me now. Like it wants this.
I flick it once.
No spark.
Twice.
The flame hisses up. Steady. Yellow orange. Small.
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But it dances. Like it knows it’s about to be fed.
It lights up my face, and I know I must look wrong in it. My reflection in the blood. My eyes. Too wide. Too glassy. The kind of broken you can’t stitch up.
I kneel first. Press the lighter close to the soaked edge of the nearest crate. I can smell the fuel in the wood. Can smell the rot under it. The blood. The scorched fur. Someone’s body under the tarp still twitching like it doesn’t realize it’s already dead. –
Good.
Let it burn with the rest of them.
I press the flame forward.
It catches.
Fast.
The fire crawls greedy across the ground, licking up the liquid trail, slithering between crates and corpses like a living thing. It jumps to the walls. Climbs high. Flares hot. Bright. Furious..
1 stagger back.
The heat hits me like a punch to the chest. My lungs seize. My eyes water. My skin goes tight.
But I watch.
Mucking watch.
The fire eats everything. Crate by crate. Nail by nail. Board by board. It chews through the roof and screams out the windows, swallowing the place like it was never solid to begin with. Like it was always meant to end in smoke and ash.
The bodies don’t scream. Not anymore. They just blister. Curl. Blacken.
Bones snap. Fat sizzles.
The smell is thick enough to gag on.
But I keep breathing.
I make myself.
Because this is the grave they dug for her.
This is the price of letting them live too long.
And I want to remember it. I want the image seared into me. Every inch of this ruin. Every shadow twisting in the flames. Every limb curling into charred ruin. Every splintered rib. Every melted face.
They’ll never hurt her again.
They’ll never touch her again.
Behind me, I hear shouting–Pierce again maybe. His voice is hoarse. Frantic. Screaming my name like he still thinks I can be
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dragged back.
But he doesn’t understand.
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I’m not walking away from this.
I’m becoming it.
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The fire climbs higher, orange giving way to blue at the heart of it. Pure heat. Pure wrath. Like the gods themselves are burning it down for me.
And above it all–still-
The moon. The crescent. Watching. Bearing witness.
I close my eyes and whisper it again, barely a breath-“Baby, I love you. I really do.”
Then I open them and I walk toward the fire.
