Page 2 of Bolt's Flame
Five years.
Five long years of this, and I still couldn’t find the strength to leave. After every beating, I told myself it would be the last. Promising myself I would run away, that I’d get out before it was too late. But every time, the fear held me captive, too afraid of what might happen if I tried to escape. What Iknewwould happen—experience is an infallible teacher.
But I can’t do this anymore.
I just can’t.
One day, he’ll lose control and really do it—kill me.
My gaze darted to the phone on the counter, just out of reach. It felt like a lifeline, but it might as well have been a thousand miles away in my mind. I knew what I had to do, but the thought of actually doing it made my chest tighten with panic.
What if I failed?
But what choice did I have?
This was it. Rock bottom. There was no more pretending that things would get better, no more hoping he would change. He would never change. And if I didn’t get out now, I wasn’t sure I’d survive the next time.
I inched closer to the phone, praying I wouldn’t lose my courage. My fingers shook as I reached for it, snatching it up and pressing it close to my chest, holding my breath.
I slipped out of the kitchen as quietly as I could, my heart pounding with the fear he may not have really left. He had tricked me a few times, making me believe he was gone, only to jump out and scare me, continuing his abuse.
The laundry room at the back of the house was small and cramped, but it was the only place I felt even remotely safe. I closed the door behind me, locking it before crawling intothe small linen closet, sinking to the floor as I dialed the only number I knew by heart, my hands trembling so badly I almost dropped the phone.
The phone rang once, twice, three times. Each ring felt like an eternity. What if he didn’t pick up? What if — “Yeah?” The gruff voice on the other end of the line made me catch my breath. It had been over a year since I’d heard my father’s voice, but it was still as solid and reliable as I remembered.
“Dad,” I whispered, my voice breaking on the word. “I... I need help.”
There was a moment of silence, and I could almost picture him on the other end, sitting up straighter, his brows drawing together in concern. “Fiona? What’s wrong? Where are you?”
I swallowed hard, glancing at the door, half-expecting it to burst open any second. “He... he hurt me. I can’t—I can’t stay here anymore.”
A low curse rumbled through the phone, followed by the sound of him moving, probably getting ready to leave. “I’m comin’ to get you. You stay put; you hear me? Don’t let him know you called. I’m on my way.”
Relief washed over me, mixed with a fresh wave of fear. I’d finally done it. I’d made the call. But now that it was real, I wasn’t sure I could handle the consequences. What if he found out before my dad got here? What if — “Fiona,” my dad’s voice snapped me back to reality. “You did the right thing. I’m comin’. Just hang tight, okay? Text me the address as soon as you hang up.”
I nodded even though he couldn’t see me, clutching the phone like it was the only thing keeping me tethered to the ground. “Okay. Please... hurry.”
“I will. I promise.”
The line went dead, and I sent him my address before letting the phone slip from my fingers, clattering to the floor beside me.My whole body trembled as I pulled my knees to my chest, trying to hold myself together. I didn’t know what was going to happen next, but there was no turning back now.
I’d finally made the jump, and all I could do was pray that I’d survive the fall.
CHAPTER THREE
I TURNED ONTOthe old dirt road that led to our secluded, if not unusualclubhouse, my lights hitting the many warning metal signs of no trespassing, private property, and we shoot then ask questions—that is if you can answer any.
The Devil’s House MC clubhouse, located just outside Charleston, South Carolina, once an old mansion, loomed at the end of a long, winding dirt road, framed by a tunnel of ancient oak trees draped with Spanish moss. Once a grand house, that was willed to one of the founders of The Devil’s House MC—South Carolina chapter, by his grandaddy, it had seen better days, and after years of abandonment, it had been reborn with a new purpose.
The club’s renovations left enough of the old charm intact, blending the history of the property with the grit of the club’s lifestyle.
And we’ve kept it that way just like old Jaybird would have wanted.
Outside, the property surrounding the mansion sprawled across several acres. To one side, the marshland began to take over, its brackish waters would reflect the late afternoon sun. A large dock jutted out into the water, a place where club members could relax. On the other side of the property was an old barn that had been converted into a garage for the club’s bike maintenance. That’s where you will find me most days working. There were also several other buildings on the property used for various things.
In the distance, you could hear the hustle and bustle of Charleston, but out here, it felt like its own world. The thick air, heavy with humidity and the scent of magnolias, carried the quiet sounds of the Lowcountry—the croak of bullfrogs and the distant buzz of cicadas. The towering oaks and scattered palmetto trees lined the property, offering a mixture of shade and privacy.
God, I loved it here.