Page 5 of Chasing the Flame (The Sacred Flames Of Ruin #1)

Before I can stop it, a whimper works its way up my throat.

Luke grins wickedly, leaning toward me. His lips are a whisper across my ear, “My cousin will be back this coming week to start renovations on this old house. I expect to see more modest attire on you…” He pauses, sneering at me as his gaze travels the length of my body.

“I don’t like the idea of random men ogling my wife. ”

I nod, shaking my head furiously to show I understand his veiled threats.

He releases me, and I absentmindedly rub my wrist, the discomfort already dissipating.

“Good. I’m glad we understand each other.

” He says, striding toward the kitchen, before tossing a cursory glance over his shoulder in my direction.

I’m frozen to the spot, worry and confusion crashing through me like a torrent of fire. He stares at me for a heartbeat, a sinister smirk tugging his lips. “Have you heard any more noises today, love?”

The word love curdles in my stomach. I shake my head—a tiny, instinctive motion. No voice comes out. I’m not sure it would sound like mine if it did.

His smirk deepens. “Thought not. You do have a flair for the dramatic.”

He moves toward me, slow and deliberate. I brace myself, but he doesn’t strike. Instead, his hand glides across my lower back, possessive, like I’m property—his favorite play thing to ruin.

“I suppose it’s too much to ask for you to look halfway decent while you play house,” he murmurs, brushing past me.

The sting lands before I can flinch.

My skin still crawls from this morning. From waking up with the taste of sleep syrup still on my tongue and the sickening stickiness between my legs. I still don’t remember it. That almost makes it worse.

He took what he wanted. And I lay there, drugged and silent.

Now I stand here, wide awake, yet silenced all the same.

Luke disappears into the dining room, the sound of silverware clinking against china as he helps himself to the dinner I made. I hear him chew. Sip. The scrape of his fork.

“I was starting to think you’d forgotten how to be useful,” he calls out.

I swallow the bile rising in my throat and walk toward the main bedroom with shaking legs. I quickly remove the cute sundress and toss it in my closet. Grabbing a plain cotton T-shirt dress, I tug it on, throwing on a pair of shorts underneath for good measure .

By the time I return to the table, he’s already halfway done eating. Satisfied by our power struggle.

That’s the safest version of him.

Moving toward the table, my mind flares with a fragile thought— Leave .

Just go. Out the door and into the night. Run until the air feels clean again.

But it dies just as quickly.

I don’t know this town. I can’t tell anyone. He made sure of that—a tracking app for my car. No real money, not enough to matter. Just his rules. His house. His version of me.

And I’m still standing in it.

Right where he wants me.

Dinner is quiet.

Luke eats like nothing happened. Like I didn’t wake up hours ago with his filth between my thighs and the weight of silence crushing my chest. Like he didn’t undo me while I was unconscious and unaware, or slap me across the face when he disapproved of my choice of dress.

He chews methodically. Swallows. Occasionally grunts in vague approval of the food I barely remember cooking .

I keep my eyes down. Eat slowly. Carefully. As if the wrong pace might provoke him.

When he finishes, he leans back in his chair with a sigh, nursing a glass of something amber. “There. Was that so hard?”

I stay silent.

He watches me for a second too long, then stands and leaves the room. The low thrum of the television flickers to life down the hall, followed by the creak of the old leather armchair as he settles in.

I stay at the table until the sound of the game fills the house. Until I’m sure he’s distracted.

Then I rise.

I clear the plates with steady hands, rinse them under scalding water, focus on the task, and control what I can.

But halfway through wiping the counter, I stop.

There—just above me.

A creak. So soft, I thought I imagined it. Careful, even—like weight shifting across floorboards.

I freeze, my breath caught in my throat. That same cold tension creeps into my spine—familiar now. The second time. The second night.

Another step. Slower this time. Then more silence.

I glance toward the hallway. Luke hasn’t stirred. Or maybe he has, and he’s testing me. He does that sometimes—sets traps to prove I’m untrustworthy. Unwell.

Still, I find myself moving toward the kitchen door. Just enough to look up.

And then I hear it again. Not a step. A voice.

“ Averie …”

It’s breathless, almost pleading. Too soft to be real—yet, too clear to ignore.

I grab the edge of the counter, my knuckles a chilling white. I’m imagining things. I have to be. Sleep deprivation. Trauma. Luke said I’ve been fragile lately.

Maybe he’s right.

But the air has shifted again. That strange static is back, like something unseen is pressing against the walls, watching and waiting.

I turn off the light, and darkness rushes in like a tide. The house holds its breath.

And again—

“ Averie… please .”

This time it’s right behind me. I whirl around, slamming the light back on, heart in my throat. I blink, confused by what I see.

The kitchen is...empty.

But something isn’t right. The air feels thinner. Colder. Like something slipped through when I wasn’t looking.

My eyes drift toward the ceiling. Then the far end of the upstairs hallway—the guest room.

It won’t have been locked. He doesn’t have to. Luke knows I won’t go in there, not without permission. Not after last night, and with the memory of what happened when I crossed that boundary.

It’s just a bedroom. Bare. Dusty. Forgettable.

But tonight… it doesn’t feel that way.

A part of me wants to believe I imagined the voice, that it’s the walls, the wind, or the echo of my own unraveling.

But something about it lingers. It wasn’t just a sound. It knew me. And for one terrifying, electric moment, I wonder—

What if I’m not the only thing in this house, he’s keeping quiet?

“Averie.” Luke’s voice cuts through the quiet like a blade .

I flinch and turn, letting my mask slide in place. He stands at the edge of the hall, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. “Come to bed.”

I nod quickly, ducking my head. “Coming.”

The air still feels wrong, charged, like something unseen is standing just above me, just out of reach, whispering through the floorboards.

But I follow him down the hall toward our bedroom on the main floor. We pass framed pictures and cold walls, the whole house too silent. Too still.

In the bedroom, I change behind a wall of practiced movements. Luke peels off his clothes and slips under the covers with a grunt, reaching for the remote.

I crawl in beside him, careful not to let our skin touch.

The TV murmurs for a while, some forgettable show he uses as background noise, before he clicks it off and rolls onto his side. The room sinks into darkness.

And then—

A faint sound above us. A slow, deliberate step. I stiffen beneath the blankets.

Then another, and a whisper.

“ Averie …”

I shut my eyes tight, my heart pounding in time with the ringing in my ears. It wasn’t loud, and it wasn’t angry.

It sounded almost… mournful.

I press my hand flat against the mattress, anchoring myself in the warmth of the sheets. In the silence that follows. In the steady rhythm of Luke’s breath beside me.

I’m imagining it. I have to be. Because if I’m not—

Then something upstairs knows my name.