Page 22 of A Moth to the Flame (Utopia #1)

As the years rolled on, he didn’t let up.

Even Granny, my most fervent supporter, was hesitant to lift a finger to publicly decry Duke’s torture campaign against me.

While my patience for being his proverbial punching bag had worn thin, Utopia catered to the Castellaws’ every whim and whimsy.

They’d been thrust from average, poor family to town heroes on account of a woman who’d died alone on a winding mountain road. That reverence had always baffled me.

People die every day. Why do some expired lives hold more weight than others?

I shake my head and move onto the next photo to the right—all the Castellaw brothers, standing in front of the old Castellaw homestead and lined up from the oldest, Cash, to the youngest, Finn.

He couldn’t have been more than two when this photo was taken.

A sense of nostalgia sweeps through me as I gaze at all their happy, smiling faces, their combed hair and clean, well-fitting clothes.

The next photo in the line says something very different.

The boys are lined up in the same order in front of their childhood home, but none of them are smiling.

Their hair and clothes look as impeccable as in the first photo, but judging by their size differences, this picture was taken shortly after their mother died.

Cash, Duke, and Luke look to be in high school with their soaring height and gangly limbs.

Cash is filling out a bit more, but the twins have yet to catch up to his musculature.

Jude looks distinctly bored with the whole affair.

Finn, though. Finn breaks my heart. There are obvious tear stains on his young cheeks.

I blow out a controlled breath before moving onto the next photo.

This one is a little happier, but maybe that’s just because of the absolute chaos of the group of boys piled onto each other in a heaping abomination of a human pyramid.

Jude is at the center, wearing a uniform.

I didn’t even know he joined the military.

The final photo on this side of the centerpiece must have been taken when he completed his service.

The Castellaw boys are all grown men in this one.

They wear wide smiles on their faces, with their arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders in a human chain.

The brothers are whole again. As whole as they can be with the eternal holes in their hearts, anyway.

I backtrack down the line to look at the photos to the left of his parents.

The first makes me laugh out loud. It’s a picture of Duke posing with an eight-point buck beneath his boots, his hunting rifle propped on his hip like a modern-day, mountain warrior.

He looks younger in this photo, maybe twenty or so.

His sharp jawline is still clean-shaven instead of bearded, and his hair is shorn close to his head rather than the shoulder-length that he wears it now.

I move onto the next, which appears to be the grand opening of Duke’s mechanic shop.

Once again, his brothers surround him in support.

They’re another pile of muscular limbs in front of the garage.

All of them point to the simple sign above them.

He looks so happy here. They all look so damn proud of him.

I swallow a different ball of emotion.

The teachers in our little mountain school never expected Duke to make anything of himself. He didn’t get good grades, and it was obvious that he struggled. Just before his mama died, our eighth grade English teacher actually assigned me to help him in class. I never really got the chance.

I shake off the past that can’t be changed and turn toward the next photo.

A painful jolt of awareness stiffens Duke’s muscles until it feels like they’re locking up.

Duke. Smiling at the camera.

A newborn babe in each arm.

A stuttered breath of agonized shock escapes his seizing lungs.

Duke…Duke has children?

I don’t know why I’m so surprised. With all the pipe he lays around here, it was bound to happen.

I just can’t believe I never knew about it before.

Though Granny didn’t gossip about the townsfolk to me much, this seems like an important enough event that she would have at least mentioned it in passing.

“Oh, Cordie. Do you remember that evil boy who tortured you throughout your teenage years? Well, he’s a proud papa now! I think he’s finally turned over a new leaf!”

Actually, I can see why she wouldn’t have told me. I never would’ve believed her.

I pick up the photo and study it closely, Duke’s heart thudding at a rapid pace. The boys in his muscular arms clearly resemble him. There’s no doubting their parentage, despite their wrinkly newborn faces.

The longer I gaze at the picture, the more Duke’s shoulders relax.

This isn’t Duke.

It’s his twin, Luke.

They’re mostly identical, but there are some dead giveaways between the two.

Their eyes are the same shade of brown, but Luke’s are soothing where Duke’s are incinerating.

The muscular, veiny arms in this picture aren’t quite as big.

Luke likely doesn’t have time to work out as much as Duke does, since he obviously has more responsibilities.

Duke’s hair has this one barely noticeable cowlick right over his left eye. Luke doesn’t have that.

I laugh at myself again as I replace the frame on the mantle.

Why do I care? How do I even know those subtle differences between the Castellaw twins?

Probably because Luke never tortured me the way Duke did. I maintain that it’s a good thing Duke hasn’t procreated.

The last photo on this side of the line is one of the twins, older.

This one is definitely Duke. I know what Luke looks like when he’s happy, and this isn’t it.

This is…foreign, something I’ve never seen before on Duke Castellaw’s face.

Playing football in a grassy front yard with his nephews looks like the most natural thing in the world for him.

As if in this perfect snapshot of time, he’s exactly where he’s meant to be, and he’s grateful for it.

It's a precious photo, and it’s also a stark reminder that Duke doesn’t hate everyone.

Just me.

I shake myself out of this emotional timeline of Duke’s life with that fresh awareness.

He has a whole family to get back to.

Our paths were never meant to converge this way. All he brings me is pain and sadness. It’s obvious from these pictures that those aren’t the only emotions Duke is capable of feeling or dishing out.

It's late, but I refuse to let a little melancholy distract me from my plans. If all I have is this one shot to enjoy walking a mile in Duke’s beloved shoes, then I’m not going to waste it.

And I know just where to go to bask in the adoration he’s always taken for granted. The Flame.

It’s surprisingly busy for a Wednesday night, almost like people were waiting for Duke to show up. Have they noticed his absence? Have they been missing him in ways they’ve never missed me?

A chill of anticipation rolls across Duke’s skin as everyone raises their glasses in greeting, in unison. The cold sharpens when they all shout, “Duke!”

I shake off the eerie sense of foreboding and smile.

For a beat, I panic that he may have a traditional response to them that I don’t know about.

The moment passes just as quickly when the patrons swarm me— me —in a cacophony of drink offers, stories from the past week of their lives, and… batting eyelashes.

One particularly dedicated woman pushes her way through the throng to reach my side. She grins up at Duke’s face. “I was beginning to think you forgot about us.”

I kind of have, but I can’t admit that. I can’t place a name to her face for the life of me. It’s possible that she’s from a neighboring holler, someone I didn’t grow up with who’s been drawn to Duke.

It’s no secret that eligible men are in short supply around these parts.

“Me? Forget? Never.” I return her smile, but the echo of those words tastes sour on my tongue.

With surprising strength against Duke’s formidable size, she drags me toward the bar. The crowd follows.

“Wallace!” she yells happily. “Get this fine man a drink before he abandons us again!”

The bartender who showed me so much kindness around Granny’s death raises his eyebrows. “What’ll you have?”

A different sort of smile tips Duke’s lips.

“Whiskey,” I say, already planning my justified revenge. “Neat. Keep ‘em coming.”

“As you wish.” He chuckles, but there’s an undercurrent in his tone that I can’t quite name.

I forget to worry about my gut instinct soon enough.

With a drink in my hand, I lose track of time as I indulge in the sort of two-way conversation that’s been eluding me for the past thirty years.

Old classmates who never gave me the time of day happily recount their relationship woes to me.

They’re desperate to know how I’ve avoided the ball-and-chain way of life for so long.

I’d feel bad for their significant others, but most of them are here, too. They laugh as they assume that Duke has been holding out for something better than they settled for.

I laugh, too.

And laugh and laugh and laugh.

After Duke played his cruelest, most vile prank on me earlier in the evening, I’m finally having the last laugh. His perpetual bachelorhood has become the vehicle for me getting a tiny taste of what I’ve been thirsting for my entire life.

I can’t think of a more poetic version of justice.

I nearly choke on my third drink at the feel of a warm, firm hand gliding up his bicep. Slender fingers curl around the muscle of his shoulder.

“Are you ready yet?” a husky voice whispers in his ear.

I swivel on my barstool, and the same woman who dragged me to the bar is staring up at me with obvious lust in her eyes. I’m not stupid enough to pretend I don’t know what she’s really asking.