Page 26 of Chasing the Flame (The Sacred Flames Of Ruin #1)

I jolt up in bed, clutching my head with both hands, and beg the room to stop spinning. Sadly, it does not.

My head feels like a bag of bricks has been dropped on it, and exhaustion leaks through every pore in my body. I can’t tell where I am. My vision is blurry, and I blink furiously, trying to clear it.

It feels like I’m stuck in quicksand, my mind slow, my body equally sluggish. Flashes of last night run through my head, but the last thing I remember is the text from the unknown number. There’s a lapse in time that shouldn’t be there.

When my vision finally settles, the room comes into focus. It’s simple, but it’s not my own. I must’ve passed out. I scan the room, taking in the dark wood, the rich green hues, and the black tones that cover the vast space.

Black-out curtains cover a gigantic window to my left.

To my right are two doors, one of which will lead me either out of the room or to the bathroom.

My bladder chooses that exact moment to squeeze tightly, and I leap off the bed and try the door closest to me.

Sure enough, a small but equally gorgeous bathroom greets me on the other side .

I waste no time doing my business, and stop to wash my hands and check my reflection in the mirror. My hair is a fucking disaster, and I do my best to tame the wild mess. Mascara streaks down my cheeks in patchy black spots, remnants of a deep sleep. I groan, rubbing underneath my eyes.

It’s not the best job, but it will have to do. I leave the bathroom and try the other door, hoping it will lead me to Jettson.

I’ve got to get home. I need to find Jettson, and I need a fucking shower.

With that thought in mind, I walk down the hall, descend the short stairs, and go to the kitchen. Like the bedroom, the rest of the house is how I’ve always wanted my home to be. There’s barely any color, only muted or dark tones that make my heart happy.

Jettson has modern taste in style, and I love the simplistic but beautiful statement pieces that seem to bring the house to life.

My favorite would be the gorgeous abstract metalwork in the foyer.

I can’t tell what I’m looking at, but it’s beautiful.

I love how the pieces of metal seem to lose themselves in one another.

It’s an endless loop, wrapping in and around itself.

If I had to guess, it represents infinity.

I linger a bit longer, taking in every detail. Then, as if on cue, smells of bacon and cinnamon saturate the air. Suddenly, I’m ravenous and follow my nose the remainder of the way to the kitchen.

Jettson is buried in cooking, humming a soft tune while he works. I can’t quite catch the melody, but it’s beautiful nonetheless. Remembering how easily he startled last night, I try to make my presence known, shuffling a little louder as I walk toward the counter.

He glances over his shoulder, smiling as he says, “Good morning.”

“Morning,” I mumble .

“How are you feeling?” He asks, returning to the bacon frying in the pan. It smells heavenly, and my mouth waters as I catch a hint of maple sugar.

“I’m fine, but I'm confused about what happened last night. I don’t remember being put to bed,” I say, swallowing hard as I sit at the kitchen table.

“That’s not such an easy explanation.” He avoids eye contact when he says it, shuffling a bit on his feet. It’s like he’s nervous, which makes me anxious. “Averie…what do you know about your heritage?”

The question takes me by surprise, and I’m not entirely sure how to answer. Truthfully, what little I know comes from one of those lineage websites. “Not much, why?”

“We’ll get to that. Let’s start with your maiden name.”

“MacKinnon. My family comes from Scotland, but an ancestor married into the Irish community a hundred years ago. Or so the ancestry tree tells me.” I shrug, wondering where this is going.

“Interesting…”

I frown, not liking his tone. “Why is that interesting? Jettson, what the hell is going on?”

He sighs and empties the pan of bacon onto a waiting plate. I spy another plate already filled with pancakes. My mouth waters again, and my stomach growls in grievance. Jettson chuckles and grabs another empty plate, piling it high with a stack of pancakes, bacon, and an assortment of fruit.

He even grabs a bottle of what looks like all-natural syrup. “Gimmie, gimmie, gimmie,” I grumble, snatching the bottle from his hands and pouring a generous helping on my pancakes. All questions momentarily forgotten.

Jettson laughs, “Gremlin in the morning, noted. ”

Incoherent mumbles come from me the moment the first bite hits my lips. It’s divine, practically melting in my mouth. “Mhh,” I groan and grab another mouthful.

Jettson sits across the table, and we eat in comfortable silence. I’m still curious, and burning with a need to know what happened after I passed out. But for now, I let it all go and focus solely on being in the present.

After I finish, I reach for my plate, but before I can take it to the sink, Jettson stops me. His fingertips graze mine, our gazes locking onto one another. I still, my lips parting, but the words won’t leave my mouth.

“I’ve got this. Why don’t you head to the living room? I’ll meet you there,” Jettson says with a cautious smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes.

“Sure,” I mumble. Whatever I’ve done, it must’ve been awful if Jettson feels the need to guard himself around me.

I trudge out of the kitchen and across the hall to the den.

Leather couches, faded brown and cracked, rest in the center of the room.

I run my hands across the leather, my fingers grazing the top of it.

Something about the old couches brings a smile to my face, maybe it’s because I can tell it’s been well loved.

I get comfortable, letting my eyes wander the room.

There’s a fireplace to my right; its mantle is bare save for two photographs.

The first one is a photo of Elliot with a beautiful brunette. She has blue eyes and a bright smile, and the two practically glow together. Elliot looks younger here, and I imagine this is one of the last photos Jettson has of his mother.

The second photo stops me in my tracks. It’s of a young woman with golden hair and familiar hazel eyes. Recognition strikes in my gut, and I realize this must be the girl Jettson was dating in his twenties. She’s stunning, with high cheekbones and a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

Before I can examine it further, Jettson comes into the living room, holding two cups of what looks like fresh coffee. “I wasn’t sure how you took your coffee, but I had a feeling you might like it sickly sweet.”

I take the cup from his outstretched hand, “Thank you, you guessed correctly.” I give him a soft smile and blow on the steaming mug. A nutty aroma wafts toward me, and I catch undertones of caramel.

The first sip is heaven incarnate. The second sip hits my tastebuds, and I’m convinced my soul has exited my body. “Damn,” I mutter.

“Good, right?” Jettson asks, grinning like an idiot. “It’s not something you’ll find in the grocery store. I order it from a website owned and operated by veterans.”

“Wow, really? It’s delicious, you’ll have to send me a link to the website.” I take another sip of the coffee, cursing when I spill a little on my white top. “And this would be why I don’t normally wear white.”

Jettson chuckles, shaking his head at my clumsiness. He rises from his seat and disappears into the kitchen, only to return with a wet washcloth. “Here, use this to get some of it out. I’ll grab you a clean shirt and spray that with some cleaner once we’re done here.”

“You don’t have to do that, it’s unnecessary,” I say, shaking my head and shrugging my shoulders. “Besides, I would rather know what happened last night.” My cheeks sting, heat flooding through me in embarrassment.

“I don’t mind,” he says, striding out of the room before I have time to object again.

He returns a few moments later with a clean black shirt, and my cheeks flush again for an entirely different reason.

“Bathroom is down the hall, just leave yours on the doorknob and I’ll make sure I get it.

Your phone is charging on the kitchen counter, by the way. ”

Nodding my thanks, I nervously cross my chest and hug the shirt as I walk down the hall. The bathroom door is ajar, and golden shimmers of light spill into the hall. Taking a deep breath, I shut the door behind me with a soft click.

I groan, sliding a hand down my face. This is fucking embarrassing. Last night, when I chose this top, I thought of comfort. There’s a built-in bra, one that holds the girls in surprisingly well. Now? Well, that doesn’t do me a damn bit of good knowing I’ll have to walk out of here without it.

“Get over it,” I grumble in the mirror, taking a final steadying breath. Ripping off the crop top, I yank it over my head and quickly put it on the doorknob before I change my mind.

I slide Jettson’s shirt over my head and tuck the excess into the waistband of my jeans. It’s not amazing, but it gets the job done. I take an extra minute or two to run my fingers through my messy hair, trying to bring some semblance of order back to the equation.

It’s no use. My hair seriously needs a good brushing.

Pushing the strands off my shoulder, I saunter out of the bathroom and down the hall toward the kitchen.

My phone is precisely where he said it would be, and I’m grateful to find it fully charged.

I frown when the screen lights up, and see no missed calls or texts.

Opening my phone, I scan my texts and calls, then it hits me like a tidal wave.

It all comes flooding back, and I remember everything. The burning pain, the white scorching light, all of it. What in the world is happening to me?