Page 105 of Chasing After You

The night air felt thick with humidity and something akin to anticipation. The stars above were faint behind a gauze of cloud, and the estate loomed, looking as picture-perfect as it always did.

I stood beside the rental car, gloves already on, as Dorian checked the last few items in the duffel: accelerant, rags, his burner phone, and a small crowbar. His movements were practiced, deliberate, and disturbingly calm.

“This feels insane,” I muttered, wringing my hands together as I watched him.

Dorian looked up, moonlight casting sharp shadows on his face. “Yeah, probably,” he agreed, a hint of a smirk on his lips.

We slipped around the side of the estate like we belonged there, which, I mean, Dorian owned it, so we kinda did.

Inside the house, the air smelled stale, like rot. Maybe it was my imagination.

We moved through the house in silence. Dorian handed me a small glass bottle filled with fuel-soaked cloth. “Library first,” he whispered. “The paneling will go up fast.”

I nodded, swallowing down the nerves.

Together, we planted it all methodically—library, dining room, Daniel’s office, the unused parlor, the master bedroom. We didn’t light anything yet. Dorian insisted on prepping every room before a single flame was born.

When we reached the foyer again, Dorian stopped and looked at me. “Ready?”

I paused. My hands were trembling beneath the gloves. “Yeah,” I replied softly.

He nodded once and led us back into the library. I felt a little guilty about burning books, but at least they were books tainted bytheirhands.

He lit the match.

The fire caught quickly—its greedy fingers racing up the walls, eating through the bookshelves like they were made of air.

Traveling room to room, we lit the rest of the points in quick succession, the heat blooming all around us.

After the last fire was set, we stepped out onto the back lawn, watching the inferno flicker to life.

Smoke curled into the sky, thick and black, a signal to no one and everyone. Dorian stood beside me, hands still in his pockets, eyes reflecting the firelight like they were made of it.

“You okay?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “I think so. It feels right.”

He nodded, and we walked away together—two shadows slipping into the night as the estate that had once held our childhoods turned to ash behind us.

* * *

The scent of smoke clung to my clothes, to my hair, to my shoes. It was a stark reminder of what we’d done.

I’d been quiet for the first half hour of the drive, slouched in the passenger seat of the rental, the silence stretching long and taut between us. The adrenaline had crashed, leaving me exhausted and emotionally drained. There was no music playing—Dorian had left the radio off, like he knew I needed quiet, or maybe he did.

I kept thinking I should feel something more. Relief. Triumph. Regret. Fear.

But all I felt washeavy. It was as if the smoke from the house had gotten inside me and was weighing down my lungs.

Dorian’s fingers flexed on the steering wheel, knuckles stark white. He hadn’t said much since we got back on the highway. I saw the way his eyes continuously flicked between mirrors, scanning the road ahead, as he kept watch while I grappled with my thoughts.

“You okay?” he asked at last, voice soft enough to barely break the hush.

“It doesn’t feel real, but it also feels way too real,” I answered honestly, though my throat was dry and my stomach churned. “That didn’t make any sense, did it?”

Dorian glanced over at me. “Eh, I think I get it.”

“I thought I’d feel… better. Free, maybe.”