Ride For Me, Die For Me.

Chapter 18: Burn Slow

The house felt heavy tonight. Like it was holding its breath, waiting. I could almost hear the wood sigh under the weight of something unseen. The shadows seemed thicker, pressing against the corners of the room, moving just beyond sight.

Justin sat on the couch, his shoulders tight, eyes dark and distant. He wasn’t saying much, but I could feel the tension rolling off him like heat from a fire. I wanted to ask what was wrong, but the words caught in my throat. Instead, I sat quietly beside him, careful not to crowd the space he needed.

My scar flared suddenly—an angry heat curling under my skin like a snake coiling tighter. I clenched my jaw, shifting my shirt to rub it away, but the burn only spread. I swallowed the rising panic. Not here. Not now. I didn’t want him to see it, not yet. I don’t want to worry anyone.

Monica’s voice cut through the silence, light and teasing as she leaned against the doorway. “Man, this place is acting all kinds of spooky tonight. Maybe the house just needs some chill vibes—and maybe a pizza.”

Justin shot her a glare but didn’t say anything. I gave a small smile, grateful for the distraction, even if it was cheesy.

The house creaked again, a low groan drifting through the floorboards, and I froze. The temperature dropped, cold like winter’s breath. Monica raised an eyebrow. “See? Told you.”

I bit my lip and focused on steadying my breath as the scar pulsed beneath my skin. The house wasn’t just old wood and nails—it was alive. It was watching. Protecting. Warning.

Hours passed like this—quiet, tense. The burning in my back got worse. I tried to hide it, pretending to stretch or lean against the wall. But eventually, Justin noticed.

“Waiya,” his voice was soft but firm. “You’re not okay. Talk to me.”

I shook my head, forcing a smile. “It’s nothing. Just… tired.”

He didn’t buy it. His eyes searched mine, full of worry and something deeper—something like fear. I wanted to tell him the truth, but the words wouldn’t come.

Later, when the pain sharpened so much I thought I’d scream, I finally gave in. I told Justin we needed to go—to my grandmother’s house. He didn’t hesitate. Monica insisted on coming, joking she’d keep us safe from ghosts or whatever.

Grandmother’s house smelled like earth and smoke, warm and familiar. She greeted us with tired eyes but steady hands, her voice a balm. She listened to my story and studied my scar like it was a map.

“There’s darkness trying to unravel your blood,” she said softly. “But the old ways still breathe through your veins. The house knows. It protects you because it remembers.”

The world blurred as I hit the floor, pain blooming like wildfire from my spine. I heard someone shout—Justin?—but it was muffled, like I was underwater.

Hands caught me before I went all the way down.

“Waiya! Hey—Waiya, look at me!” Justin’s voice cracked. I wanted to answer but couldn’t. My body didn’t feel like mine anymore.

Everything inside me was burning.

“She’s burning up,” Monica said, voice suddenly serious, stripped of her usual sass. “I’ll get cold water. Sage. Something.”

My grandmother was already at my side, kneeling with a quiet authority that made the house still around us. Her hands moved like she was part of something older than time—touching my forehead, then hovering over my back without ever grazing the scar itself.

“She’s been carrying this alone too long,” Grandma whispered.

Justin knelt beside me, fingers trembling as he brushed hair from my face. “Why didn’t you say something?” His voice cracked again. “After everything we’ve been through—why wouldn’t you tell me?”

Because I didn’t want to worry anyone, I thought, but the words stayed locked behind clenched teeth.

“I thought it would stop,” I finally gasped, voice barely audible. “I thought it would go away…”

Justin’s jaw clenched, and his gaze dropped to the floor. “You could’ve died.”

The pain flared again—blinding, electric. I curled in on myself as best I could.

Monica returned with water and a bundle of dried herbs. “Tell me what to do,” she said, eyes on my grandmother.

Grandma nodded. “You remember how to keep a prayer alive?”

Monica gave a short nod, no sarcasm this time. “Yeah. I remember.”

The room filled with smoke and chanting, the kind that came from the throat and bone, not just the mouth. The air shifted. I felt the scar pull—like it was fighting something. Like it didn’t want to let go.

Justin gripped my hand like he was anchoring me to this world. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said quietly. “You don’t get to do this alone anymore.”

It was too much. The pain. The fear. The weight of hiding everything I didn’t have words for. A tear slipped down my cheek, and I turned my face toward him, finding comfort in the quiet rage in his eyes—not at me, but at whatever force had dared to hurt me.

The scar throbbed once more, then seemed to settle. Still hot, still angry—but quieter. Like it had been heard.

My grandmother’s chanting slowed. The smoke curled lazily in the corners of the ceiling.

“She’ll live,” she said softly. “But this thing in her back… it’s feeding off her strength. It’s alive. And it’s not done yet.”

The room fell into silence.

Justin exhaled sharply, his forehead dropping to my shoulder. Monica sat cross-legged, rubbing her temples. “Whew,” she said. “That was… a whole lot. I mean, I like drama, but not demon-back drama.”

I gave a weak laugh, and it startled me. Monica winked. “You still got jokes? You’ll be alright.”

Justin didn’t laugh. He just sat there, watching me like he was afraid I’d disappear.

“We have to figure out what this scar really is,” he said. “And how to stop it before it drains you dry.”

Grandma nodded. “Then you’ll need to go deeper. Find the one who marked her. He left more than a curse—he left a thread. A trail.”

Monica stretched and stood, brushing ashes from her jeans. “Cool. Just what I wanted. A murder mystery with cursed tattoos and invisible evil. Guess I’m in.”

Justin looked down at me. “Rest now. I’m not letting you hide this from me again.”

His voice wasn’t angry anymore—it was broken.

I reached for his hand, squeezing it gently. “I’ll try.”

And for the first time in a long time, I meant it