Then, of course, he vaulted the railing, leaves crunching under him as he sprinted toward the blaze.
“Hoses—extinguishers—move!”The shout came from one of the guys as Doyle snagged a red canister from the UTV.
Austen had followed them off the porch, along with Declan.Boo charged into the house after her mother, Tia standing there, frozen just before she glanced at Penny.
Then Tia, too, ran off the porch, charging through the haze.
Conrad had hauled out a hose and Oak held another, water jetting in wild arcs, the spray catching the firelight.
“The sprinklers are on!”Grover, a bold outline against the flames, directed Conrad to the side door.“Side door—stop it spreading!”
Mama Em ran out.“Fire Department on the way!”Her voice cracked, fierce and raw, over the chaos.
Emberly had risen, but Nimue grabbed her wrist.“Stay here.You don’t need to get more hurt.They got this already.”Harper and Austen and Declan had gone inside, maybe to haul out furniture or art or to close doors to keep the fire from spreading.
“Stay here.”
Yeah, she couldn’t just stand here.
She couldn’t run—not with her ribs—but she headed toward the stairs.“C’mon, Nim—we have to help!”Pain stabbed at her, the cold mist slicking her skin, soaking her jeans, and chilling her to the bone.
Closer, smoke clogged the air, the inn’s kitchen a furnace, flames licking the frame, black plumes billowing into the sky, thick and choking.The sprinkler inside sprayed, water hissing against the inferno, steam mixing with the acrid stink of burning wood, melted wiring, and scorched paint.
Grover gripped Mama Em’s arm.Her face was etched with terror, tears cutting tracks through the soot on her cheeks as she watched her home burn.And all around them, the family fought—Steinbeck’s silhouette swinging an extinguisher, foam dousing the black smoke, Jack wrestling another hose, water slashing the siding in desperate arcs.Conrad and Oaken sprayed the porch, and Declan, Austen, Tia, and Harper carried out artwork, furniture.
Nimue pushed porch furniture away from the flames, her form silhouetted against the blaze.
Emberly stared at the chaos, her gut twisting, sharp and hot, a thief’s instinct kicking in...
This wasn’t right.The inn didn’t just blow up—not tonight, not with everyone here, laughing and whole.Her gaze scanned the chaos, the flames too fierce, the timing too perfect.
Wait—a shadow flickered near the Norbert’s porch.Lean, moving through the darkness, and behind it, another figure—slighter, slinking low.
A glint of something metallic sparked in the firelight.A gun’s barrel?
Her breath hitched.This wasn’t random.This was a hit—a distraction, loud and brutal, to pull the family away.
She found Nimue, still moving furniture off the apron porch onto the lawn, and biting against the pain, she ran to her.“Nim, this is a hit.”
Nimue rounded on her.“What?”
“We need to get inside.”Emberly yanked Nimue toward the Norbert’s back door, her boots slipping on the wet boards.The screen slammed shut, the kitchen dark, air heavy with the fading warmth of potatoes and the creeping tang of smoke seeping through the cracks.She shoved Nimue toward the counter, her own breaths ragged, pain lancing her side.“Stay low.Something’s wrong.”
Nimue stared at her.“What—no, we need to help?—”
“The fire is a decoy!”Emberly grabbed a butcher knife from the block, her ribs throbbing as she pressed against the wall.“Too big, too fast.Look outside—someone’s out there.”
Nimue’s eyes widened.“Who?Bratva?”
“I don’t know yet.”This felt personal, a blade aimed at her new life.“You’ve been digging—anyone you’ve tagged lately?”
Nimue swallowed, eyes darting.“Luis.His Bratva threads.I’ve been close, tracking his moves.But I covered my tracks?—”
“Not enough.”Emberly peeked through the window, the inn a tragedy—flames, smoke, the family fighting for their home.
From the edge of the porch, that lean shadow moved again, closer now, weaving through the haze.A woman’s frame—Teresa?—slunk behind, her walk too smooth, too predatory, the gun glinting again in the firelight.Then the taller figure turned, the glow catching a familiar jaw, stubble sharp against the flickering orange—Luis.
Her stomach dropped.She knew it.“It’s him.Luis.And Teresa.”
