Page 1 of Let it Sizzle (Playing with Fire #3)

Serena

There’s a moment right before it starts. The moment where time holds its breath.

Where I know I’ve made a mistake—but I don’t know which one yet.

Maybe the food’s too hot. Or too cold. Maybe the sound of the spoon tapping the plate irritates him. Maybe I existed too loudly today. There’s no warning, no logic. Just that heavy silence that wraps around my throat like a noose.

Then the moment ends.

My father's eyes narrow as he stares down at the meal in front of him, then back up at me. The way he sets his glass down is too careful, too slow. It’s not about the food. It never is. But that won’t stop him from finding something to blame.

His voice is low at first—controlled and cold. “You think this is hot enough? You serve me half-cooked trash and expect a thank you?”

I try to step back, keep my head down, stay quiet the way my brother told me to when he left me in charge.

But the distance doesn’t help, and neither does silence.

His chair scrapes against the floor with a sound I’ve come to fear more than yelling.

He’s up before I can move, and his hand is flying before I can turn.

The slap is loud and humiliating. My cheek stings immediately, but I stay upright.

The plate crashes to the ground, and the food I spent the last hour preparing is now a mess of shards and sauce across the tile.

I don’t look at it. I don’t look at him.

I look toward the hallway and force my legs to move.

Samira is already there, hovering just outside the bedroom door, her fingers clutching the edge of her dress.

I grab her arm and yank her into the room with me, bolting the door behind us before he makes it out of the kitchen.

I know the steps. I know the time I have.

I drag the dresser in front of the door, heart racing, muscles aching.

Then we dive under the bed, the dust thick and choking.

The footsteps come quickly. Too quickly.

My father’s voice is no longer slurred. It’s sharp now, full of venom. He slams into the bedroom door with his fist. The wall shakes.

“Open this damn door, Serena!”

Samira lets out a soft sob, her small hands pressing against her ears. I hold her tighter, trying to shield her with my body even though I’m shaking just as hard.

“I told you I was gonna teach you respect!” he bellows. The handle rattles violently. “You and that little brat—you think you can lock me out in my own house?”

“Please stop,” Samira whimpers. “Make him stop.”

“I will, I promise,” I whisper, kissing the top of her head, my words barely audible over the sound of his boot hitting the door. “Just keep your eyes closed, okay? Don’t let go of me.”

The dresser scrapes. He’s almost through.

“I swear to God,” he roars, “if I have to come in there—”

Samira’s voice is tiny, barely there. “What are we going to do? Byron’s not here…”

My throat tightens. My stomach twists. I don’t know. I’m fifteen. I don’t have a plan. But I can’t let her see that.

“We stay quiet,” I tell her, forcing my voice to sound steady. “We stay small. And we don’t let the fear get bigger than us.”

I don’t know where the words come from. I don’t even know if I believe them. But she nods against me and stops trembling.

And still, in my chest, my heart thuds so loud I’m sure he’ll hear it. Because I am scared. I am so, so scared.

But she’s looking at me like I’m her whole world, and right now, I have to be.

The door rattles harder. Louder.

The pounding is relentless now—fists, boots, fury. The sound fills the room like thunder in a glass jar, echoing inside my head, making it impossible to think straight.

“Open this damn door!” he screams again, and this time I can hear something unhinged in his voice. Something worse than rage. A promise.

Samira starts rocking beside me, her eyes wide and wet. She whispers the words I gave her like a prayer. “We stay small. We don’t let the fear get bigger than us. We stay small. We don’t let the fear…”

I join her.

“...get bigger than us.”

The door cracks with a sound that makes me jump. The dresser scrapes across the floor. My fingers clutch Samira’s shoulder, nails digging in too tight, but I can’t loosen them. My breath shortens, comes out ragged.

The lock gives.

His boot slams through the door. A jagged piece of wood flies across the room. I see his legs first—jeans stained with grease, fists at his side, heavy with rage. He’s breathing like a bull, loud and furious, and he’s inside now.

“Come out here, you ungrateful little—”

I stop hearing him. Everything slows.

My vision narrows. My body folds in on itself. I can hear my blood rushing in my ears, feel my fingers going numb. Samira’s still whispering beside me, but it sounds far away.

I don’t know if I’m going to move. I don’t know if I can.

Then there’s a crash. A different voice.

“Get the hell away from them!”

It happens fast. A blur of noise and motion. I hear a struggle. Something slams into the wall. My father grunts. Then there’s silence again—sharp, stunned silence.

I blink and crawl toward the light pooling in through the broken door. The shape of someone kneeling meets my eyes.

Levi.

His face is flushed, his shirt is torn at the shoulder, and there’s blood on his lip—but he looks steady. Fierce. He looks like the only real thing in the room.

He crouches down, one hand outstretched toward me. His voice is quiet but strong.

“Serena. It’s okay. I’m here now.”

For a second, I don’t believe him. Then I look at Samira. Her eyes are on him too. Hope flickers there. Real hope. It hits me like a wave. I reach out with shaking fingers and place my hand in his.

He grips it gently. And just like that, I can breathe again. I feel safe even though we are still in the same house with my dad.

The adrenalin has stopped pumping and I can feel my heart rate slow down to normal.

The grip on my hand is the last thing I register before everything goes black.

My knees buckle beneath me, but I don’t feel the floor. There’s only warmth—arms strong enough to hold me, even when everything else falls away. I hear my name once more, spoken low and urgent. “Serena… stay with me.”

But I can’t.

It’s too much. Too fast. My brain, my body—they can’t hold any more.

The next thing I know, I’m looking at a florescent light.

There’s the sound of a kettle whistling somewhere in the distance and the faint scent of soap and lavender. I blink against the haze, throat dry, limbs heavy, heart racing even though I’m not in danger anymore.

I sit up too quickly. A dull ache pulses in my head, and the blanket around my shoulders slips.

The couch beneath me isn’t mine. It’s too soft. Too safe.

Then I remember.

My father. The door. The sound of it breaking. Samira’s voice shaking in the dark. Levi’s voice calling out. The fight.

Panic tears through my chest.

“Samira,” I gasp, trying to push off the blanket, my voice catching on her name. “Where’s Samira?”

“She’s okay.”

Levi’s voice comes from the other side of the room.

I look up and see him standing in the doorway, his shirt changed, a faint red mark on his cheek.

His hair is damp, like he just washed off the night.

There’s something in his expression that steadies the panic in my lungs—a quiet certainty that somehow makes everything slow down.

“She’s asleep in my room,” he adds, walking over. “She had hot chocolate. She didn’t want to leave your side, but she couldn’t keep her eyes open.”

Relief floods me so fast it makes my eyes sting. I nod, but it takes effort. My body feels like it’s made of sandbags and bruises. He kneels beside the couch, his movements gentle as he adjusts the blanket and presses a cold cloth to my temple. I didn’t even realize I was sweating.

“Your shoulder’s bruised,” he murmurs. “And your lip was bleeding. I cleaned it up a bit.”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. It’s true. I’m sorry for the screaming. For needing help. For collapsing in front of him like some useless damsel from the books I used to hide under my pillow.

“Don’t be.”

He’s so close I can smell the soap on his skin, clean and unfamiliar, and for a moment, my eyes linger on the cut at his lip and the curve of his jaw. I shouldn’t notice. But I do.

There’s no pity in his eyes. No judgment. Just something quiet and solid. Like he’s not scared of the pieces I’m made of.

He stays there, one hand steadying the cloth, the other holding mine again. I want to pull away—embarrassment burns under my skin—but I don’t. I don’t think I can.

“You’re safe now,” he says, and this time, I almost believe him.

I sink back against the cushions, eyes fluttering closed, not because I’m weak but because—for once—I don’t have to keep them open.

And that’s when I realize: this is the first time I’ve ever felt protected by someone who wasn’t Byron.

Levi Mercer didn’t just get us out of that house. He gave me someplace soft to land.

I watch him as he wrings out the cloth and folds it again, pressing it gently to the corner of my mouth where the skin still stings. He hasn’t said much since I woke up. Maybe he doesn’t know what to say. Or maybe he knows I can’t handle words that sound too much like pity.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I murmur, my voice hoarse from crying. “Come in after us. Fight him.”

Levi looks up from the cloth in his hands, his jaw ticking.

“I promised Byron I’d take care of you,” he says quietly. “He made me swear it.”

I blink at him. The idea that my brother—who always did everything himself—would ask someone else to look after me... it feels foreign. Almost impossible. But Levi isn’t done.

“When I heard you scream, I didn’t think. I just ran.”

He says it like it was simple. Like barging into someone else’s nightmare was the obvious thing to do. There’s no pride in his voice. No need for thanks. Just a quiet kind of certainty, like this was always going to be the way the night ended.

“I didn’t know what he’d do to you,” Levi adds, softer now. “But I knew I wasn’t going to stand there and find out.”

My throat tightens. I look away, suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to cry again. Not from pain. Not from fear. From the strange, aching weight of being protected—for once, by someone who wasn’t my brother.

“He’s going to be mad,” I whisper.

“He’s not coming near you tonight.”

There’s so much finality in his voice, it stills the panic pressing against my ribs. I feel it settle, just a little. Like maybe, just maybe, the worst part is over.

“You sure, she’s okay?”

“She’s safe. Sleeping. I checked in on her just before you woke up.”

I nod and lean back against the couch, the blanket pooled in my lap now feeling more like armor than comfort. Levi stays beside me, not pushing, not asking, just there.

After a while, I whisper, “Thank you.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Then—

“You don’t have to thank me. I meant it when I said I’d look out for you.”

The room is quiet except for the ticking of the clock and the low hum of the heater. And in that silence, something shifts inside me.

I don’t feel strong. I don’t feel brave. But I feel seen.

And somehow, that’s enough.