Smoke And Confusion

Chapter 7

Smoke and Confusion

The words echoed in my head like a melody I refused to sing.

"I'll free you."

They should have sounded like salvation, but they scorched.

Freedom — one word that was everything to me — now was like another trap. Another promise that would vanish the moment I reached for it.

I remained on the floor well after Ronan had departed, the sound of his footsteps fading away into silence. The air in the room felt too still, too thick, as if it could see me. Even the walls hummed with secrets I was forbidden to hear.

I did not get up. I did not cry. I sat, wrapping my knees against my chest, as the cold crawled up my body. Where he stood still smelled of him — not pungent, but definite. It lingered like a ghost, reminding me that even though he was not there anymore, he still was.

My heart twisted up with pain. I did not know if it was out of fear, anger, or something far worse — that lethal moment of understanding I did not want to accept.

Because when I looked into his eyes previously, I did not simply look at the man who had held me captive.

I saw the man who was tired. The man who uttered "I will set you free" like the very words were being pulled from him.

And that frightened me more than his brutality ever did.

I wanted to hate him.

I had to hate him.

But the way he looked at me made it harder. As though he were looking at me — not as a prisoner, not as a reminder of what used to be, but as something else. Something human.

I shook my head frantically, trying to push my palms against my temples.

"No," I whispered to myself. "No. Don't listen to him."

The memories poured over me like a wave crashing against stone.

His voice growing louder with outrage.

The cold floor below me.

His calloused and unyielding hands.

The tears that hadn't mattered to him then.

How was I supposed to believe he would let me go after that?

Men like Ronan didn't change overnight. Alphas didn't learn hearts overnight after decades of dominance and hostility.

But then again, the way he looked at me…

I clenched my fists. I did not want to think anymore. I wanted the chaos inside me to stop. But the silence was so oppressive, so absolute, that it made my thoughts scream even louder.

Before the light outside began to fade, my head was all over. I lay out on the bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember the world beyond these walls — wind rustling, the smell of wet earth, my mother's laughter.

But whenever I could try and understand the memory, it slipped me and took the place of another.

By fire.

That night, when sleep finally came, it came brutally.

The flames were everywhere.

The sky was on fire, the ground was splitting open, and I could feel smoke in my lungs until I couldn't breathe anymore. I was screaming — not audibly, but in my head.

I was little again.

Barefooted. Running.

The world around me collapsing inward — the house, the trees, our life. I saw my father's back as he tried to rip open a door. The wood split, the fire lapped at his clothes, and for a moment, I thought he'd turn to me.

But he didn't.

Then — out of the haze — I saw him.

Ronan.

Standing in the middle of the fire.

He wasn't a man yet — just a boy, but his eyes, the same haunted eyes, looked directly at me. His face was bloody and ashy. His mouth screamed something I couldn't quite hear above the fire.

Then the fire burst out — and the world became white.

I woke up gasping, reaching for the sheets, my skin damp with sweat. I was breathing harshly, fast gasps, my chest rising and falling as if I'd actually been running.

The room was dark, but the dream clung to me — the bitter taste of smoke, the voice, the gaze in his eyes, the knowledge that his eyes were terrified, not angry.

I pressed my shaking hand over my face.

Why did I dream about him?

Why did I see him in my flames?

I had always believed the story — that his family died because of mine. That the men of my father's tribe brought the fires that consumed their home. That the blood curse started that night.

But what if it hadn't been so cut and dried as I was told?

What if the memory wasn't a dream, after all?

The thought made my heart speed up.

No. It couldn't be. That wasn't an actual memory. It wasn't mine. It couldn't be.

I arose and moved to the window, pulling back the curtain far enough to see the moon hanging over the dark woods. The silver light caressed my face, soft but chill.

Outside, everything was quiet — the trees unmoving, the air thick with mist. But within, I could feel it — the tension seeping through the darkness, as if waiting, watching. Spied.

Freedom.

The word returned to me, cruel and ungentle.

Could I believe that which he promised?

Would freedom be followed by calm. or yet another form of imprisonment?

I had no idea.

I had no idea anything any longer.

I rested my forehead against the cold glass and breathed gently,

Why can't I despise you completely?"

The whisper slipped hoarse, brittle — but it was the truth that I did not wish to hear.

Because the man who'd broken me was the only one capable of mending me now.

A faint shock yanked me back from my daydreaming — soft, but perceptible.

The tread of footsteps.

I whirled about roughly, pounding heart. The steps stopped just beyond my door.

There was stillness for a moment. Then — a shadow moved in the crevice of the door.

Someone was inside. Staring at me.

"Ronan?" I breathed.

No answer.

The handle moved a fraction, but the door remained closed. Only that small, deliberate click that made me shiver.

Then the footsteps receded — slow, disappearing into the air.

I stood frozen, every nerve in my body screaming that something was wrong.

Maybe it was him.

Maybe it wasn't.

But whoever it was… they knew I was awake.

And for the first time that night, I knew — the flame in my dream wasn't the only thing that haunted me.

Something else was.

Something real.