Through the Fire (Daughter of Fire, #1)(3)

As the memories turned sour, I sat with the offending flowers in my hand. In the candlelight. The pure white petals were stark against my olive skin. The now-familiar instinct to flee built within me. Within half an hour Dad and I could be back on the road heading away from Charlotte, North Carolina. Destination: anywhere else.

All it would take was one word.

We were still recovering from our most recent move though. Besides, I didn’t want to leave again yet—not until I was certain about the danger we might face. If Clay truly had found us here, when we’d been so careful, he would be able to find us wherever we went.

It could be a coincidence, I reminded myself again as I threw the flowers down next to the one personal item I had in the room—a gilt photo frame containing a picture of Mom and Dad, taken during their time at a university in England. It was the one keepsake I ensured I took with me from each house.

Sparing a glance at the photo, I was struck again by how much I looked like my mother. We shared the same almond-shaped eyes, olive skin, and fiery hair. Even the shades of lilac that flickered in our eyes were all but identical. It was impossible not to wonder whether her fate would be mine too.

Some days, it seemed inevitable.

I clenched my fingers before stretching them out again, trying to shake the pin pricks that raced over my skin. Then I crossed to the window and pulled back the blind. My stomach twisted at the thought as I scanned the street again.

If it’s wasn’t him though, who could it be?

Trying to force thoughts of the past out of my mind for a few hours, I headed out to be social with Dad until bedtime. My night would be overtaken with memories of the object of my schoolgirl crush.

Then again, I rarely had dreams that weren’t filled with Clay Jacobs.





CHAPTER TWO


I FLICKED THROUGH the newspaper while I sat behind the counter at work, trying to stay awake. I’d endured an almost sleepless night, lost in the memory of Clay.

The bell over the door trilled, indicating the arrival of a customer. I stood to greet the shopper, but the words froze in my throat as I took in the sight of the person before me.

My first thoughts were of escape. With him right in front of me, a rush of heat ran over my skin. It was foolish to ignore my instincts when I’d spotted the flowers on my doorstep. Flames prickled just beneath my skin as I prepared to fight my way past him to safety.

How could I have been so stupid?

Resisting the urge to cry out or take my chances and run, I stared at him, wide-eyed and disbelieving. What was he doing there? Had he come to finish the job he failed to do back in high school?

The thought of that Clay—the innocent one who’d worked so hard to steal my heart—flooded into me and, despite the danger, I couldn’t help but assess the differences between the boy and the man who now stood in front of me.

He’d grown another inch or two, his arms and chest were slightly fuller, and a dusting of stubble darkened his jaw, but it was unmistakably him. It was almost as if the Clay I’d met on my first day at Grandview Heights High School in Ohio had manifested in front of me. His hair and eyes were as dark as ever, both so brown that they almost appeared to be black, lending him a mysterious, almost dangerous, air. The only thing missing between the man in front of me and the boy he’d been was the mischief in his eyes and the smile that broke the pout of his lips that had made him approachable back then.

For his part, no surprise registered on his features when his gaze fell on me. In fact, his face revealed very little in the way of emotion at all.

He raised an arm, and I took an instinctive step away from him. Instead of lifting a weapon, his empty hand continued upward until his palm was against the back of his neck. My mouth dried out, and I had to remind myself to breathe as I watched the familiar gesture—all through high school he’d made that same move. Even over the short time we’d spent together, I’d learned it was a move he made when he was nervous. Why would he be nervous?

As I blinked, my eyelids brushed across the contacts I wore, and I was reminded that I had my costume firmly in place and his impassive expression might simply be evidence of his failure to recognize me. Although I could have sworn hours had passed since I’d seen Clay, less than a minute has passed. I planted what I hoped came across as a look of casual disinterest on my face and smiled at him like he was just any other customer. There was no reason to let him know he was responsible for my shaking hands and ragged breath.

“How can I help you today?” I asked when my voice was steady enough.

He stepped closer to me and splayed his hands on the counter. “Did you get the flowers I left for you?”

I tried to take another step away from him, but l was stopped by the wall behind me. It doesn’t mean he recognizes you. It’s been two years since high school, and right now you don’t look like you. Maybe he just likes the new look.

If my hair were out, I would have had no doubts over whether he recognized me. I could still remember his words to me on my first day, “I like what you’ve done with your hair, by the way. Not many girls have the courage to dye it so many colors at once.” At the time, it had unnerved me that Clay had paid close enough attention to me to notice that my hair wasn’t strawberry blonde like most people had assumed when I was younger. It made me wonder how long it would be before he noticed my eyes were actually purple and not the blue they could pass for with a casual glance.