Chapter 6: A Reason to Fight
"We need to set this place on fire," Mom whispered, eyes darting through the dark. "A distraction. If they're busy trying to put it out, we might be able to slip away unnoticed."
My heart beat like a drum in my chest. "The kitchen," I whispered back. "It has to be close."
Mom nodded. "I overheard one of them earlier—Kane, the guy who grabbed me. His partner was grumbling about a helicopter on the roof. That's our way out."
She grabbed my hand tightly. Her fingers trembled, but her voice remained firm. "But I don't know how to fly it. I never learned."
"I did," I lied. "Well, I watched Dad fly a few times. I remember where the buttons are." I wasn't sure if I believed it myself, but I needed her to. We couldn't afford to hesitate now.
Her shoulders eased just a bit, enough for her to squeeze my hand back. "Okay," she whispered. "Okay."
We crept through the hallway, the floorboards groaning softly under our feet. Every shadow looked like a figure. Every corner could've held a monster. But we didn't stop.
The kitchen door groaned open. Inside, it was musty and grim. Grease clung to the walls, old metal pans hung crookedly from racks. It was abandoned, but still stocked. On the counter, a dented jug of kerosene waited like a gift from fate.
We poured it everywhere—on the floors, the curtains, the counters. Anything that could burn. My fingers were slick with it, the sharp smell stinging my nose.
I found a matchbox, my hand trembling as I passed it to Mom.
She struck one, the flame bursting to life—bright, dangerous, perfect.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?"
We froze.
That voice—rough, snarling—belonged to Kane. He stood in the doorway, arms crossed, a smirk pulling at the scar across his cheek.
Mom's hand dropped the match. She lunged to pick it up, her fingers fumbling.
"Stay back," she said, her voice shaking but firm. "I swear I'll burn this whole place down."
Kane chuckled, stepping forward. "Lady, I've met your type. All bark, no fire."
He lunged.
His hand clamped around her wrist, twisting it. Mom yelped in pain.
"Mom!" I screamed.
I ducked behind the pantry door, heart hammering. But I wasn't hiding. I was thinking. Planning.
Be strong, my female king. Dad's voice returned to me like a prayer.
"Stay hidden, Isabella!" Mom cried, still struggling.
But I couldn't.
My fists clenched. My breath caught in my throat. Something stirred deep inside—a low, pulsing hum. I'd felt it before. That strange, eerie vibration in my chest. It wasn't fear. It was power.
Fury.
I stepped out of the pantry. Not like a frightened little girl. Like something else.
"Let go of my mother," I said.
Kane turned, surprised. "You again?"
"Let. Her. Go."
He laughed. "You gonna stop me?"
Then he struck her—hard.
That sound split my mind.
I saw red.
I didn't think. I moved.
I charged him, arms out, screaming from somewhere deep in my gut. I didn't care that I was smaller, weaker. All I knew was that he hurt her. That he wanted to hurt us both.
He shoved me aside, but I didn't fall. I came back at him, this time with a pan from the counter. I swung it with all my strength. It hit his side with a sickening thud.
He cursed, stumbling back.
Mom yanked free, grabbing the match off the floor. "Light it!" I shouted.
She struck it—again and again—until the flame roared back to life.
She threw it onto the kerosene-soaked rags.
The fire whooshed to life, climbing quickly.
Kane backed off, coughing.
We didn't wait.
We ran.
Down the hall. Past the rooms. Toward the stairwell that led up.
Smoke chased us, thick and angry. But I didn't care.
For the first time—I had a reason to fight.
And I would burn down the world for her.