I Don't Want To Be A Hero

Chapter 20 Who Will She Become

Davina crouched behind the parked car, trembling so hard her teeth chattered. The cold night air stung her lungs, mixing with the sharp ache in her side. Her hands were slick with sweat and shaking uncontrollably. She pressed her back against the tire, trying to steady her breathing.

The sirens grew louder, echoing off the buildings. Red and blue lights flashed across the street as police cars screeched to a stop in front of the restaurant.

Officers rushed toward the shattered window, shouting commands, weapons drawn. Davina flinched at every sound, her nerves raw and frayed. She tried to stand, but her legs buckled beneath her.

"Miss? Miss, are you hurt?" a voice called from somewhere behind her.

Davina didn't answer. She couldn't. Her throat felt tight, her chest constricted. Her mind replayed the last few minutes in jagged flashes—her father falling, her mother's scream, Lucifer's laughter, the shattering glass.

A shadow fell over her.

"Miss—Davina?"

She froze.

That voice.

"Davina!"

Sebastian.

He ran toward her from the far end of the street, his coat flaring behind him, his face twisted with fear. He dropped to his knees beside her, hands hovering over her shoulders as if afraid she might break.

"Miss Davina… oh God…" His voice cracked. "I'm here. I'm here."

Davina blinked up at him, her vision swimming. "Sebastian… they… they're…"

He didn't let her finish. He pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly but gently, as if she were something precious and fragile.

"I know," he whispered, his voice trembling. "I know."

She buried her face in his chest, sobbing silently, her body shaking with the force of it. Sebastian wrapped his coat around her, shielding her from the cold, from the flashing lights, from the horror behind them.

Police officers approached cautiously.

"Sir, we need to—"

"She's a minor," Sebastian said sharply, his voice suddenly steel. "And she's injured. She needs medical attention immediately."

The officers exchanged looks, then nodded. One of them radioed for paramedics.

Davina clung to Sebastian's sleeve, her fingers tightening as another wave of panic surged through her.

"He's still in there," she whispered. "Lucifer. He's still—"

"He won't touch you again," Sebastian said, his voice low and fierce. "I swear it."

Paramedics arrived with a stretcher, but Davina refused to let go of Sebastian. He stayed beside her as they lifted her, his hand gripping hers the entire time.

As they wheeled her toward the ambulance, Davina turned her head just enough to see the restaurant one last time—the shattered window, the flashing lights, the silhouettes of officers moving inside.

Her childhood ended in that building.

Her family ended in that building.

And somewhere inside, Lucifer was slipping away into the shadows, carrying the promise of a future nightmare.

Davina closed her eyes, tears slipping down her cheeks.

A few days later, Nicole and Stevan were buried beneath a gray sky that seemed to mourn with her. The cemetery was quiet except for the wind brushing through the in bud trees, carrying with it the faint scent of damp earth. Davina stood between the two coffins like a ghost, her arms wrapped around herself, her skin still stinging from the cuts that covered her—thin, angry lines left by the glass window she had thrown herself through to escape.

She barely remembered the fall. Only the cold air. The shattering. The pain. And then the silence.

When the police questioned her afterward, she sat in the hospital hallway with a blanket around her shoulders, staring at the floor tiles as if they might rearrange themselves into answers. All she could manage was the truth in its simplest, most horrifying form: It was a normal night until he came and forced everyone to kill each other.

The officers exchanged looks she didn't miss—pity, disbelief, the kind of horror people try to hide but never quite can. Those who offered condolences afterward always said the same thing: You're so lucky to have survived.

Lucky.

Was that all she was now? A survivor? A girl who lived because two people she loved died in front of her? If it weren't for Stevan shielding her… if it weren't for her mother… she wouldn't be standing here at all.

The days blurred after that. She slept in short, broken intervals, waking to the echo of screams that weren't there. She drifted through the mansion like a shadow, barely eating, barely speaking.

Then, suddenly, she was sitting in Stevan's office, the heavy oak desk between her and the lawyer who had handled the Ren family's affairs for decades. Robert Ren—Stevan's younger brother—stood across the room, his smug smile already carved into place. He looked like a man waiting for a prize to be handed to him.

Davina didn't care. She felt nothing.

"I am so sorry for your loss, Davina," the lawyer said gently.

"Thank you," she muttered, her voice barely audible.

"And you must be Robert Ren, my client's younger brother."

"Why is the kid here?" Robert snapped immediately. "She wasn't his real kid, so she shouldn't be."

The lawyer's expression darkened, his tone turning cold. "Well, she is. So sit down."

Robert scoffed but obeyed, dropping into the chair with a huff.

"There's not much to it," the lawyer continued, pulling out the will. "It's probably the simplest will I've ever drawn up."

Robert leaned forward eagerly.

"To my brother, Robert Ren, I leave you one hundred thousand dollars, as well as the residence at 579 Pine Avenue in which you currently reside, and the 20XX Lincoln you drive."

"That's it!?" Robert shot to his feet, face flushing red. "What about the mansion? The company? The rest of the money?"

The lawyer didn't flinch. He simply turned the page.

"To my darling daughter Davina," he read, "you may not be mine by blood, but you will always be the daughter I chose to raise and love. To you, I leave everything—my company, all of my wealth and material items. And Sebastian, who will take care of you and run the company in your place until you reach eighteen years of age."

"This isn't fair!" Robert shouted. "Everything is supposed to be mine! I'll fight this!"

"You can try," the lawyer replied calmly, "but Mr. Ren was in his right state of mind when writing this will. I doubt it will go far."

Robert stormed out, slamming the door so hard the picture frames rattled.

Davina sat frozen. "He left me everything?"

"He did," the lawyer said softly. "And your mother left you this."

He handed her a sealed envelope—cream-colored, her mother's handwriting looping across the front. Davina's breath caught. Her fingers trembled as she took it.

"She told me to tell you to read it in private," he added before quietly leaving the room.

Davina stared at the envelope for a long moment. It felt heavier than paper should—like it carried the weight of everything she had lost and everything she wasn't ready to face.

Finally, she opened it.

The paper trembled in Davina's hands as she unfolded it. Her mother's handwriting—soft, looping, unmistakably hers—blurred for a moment as tears welled in her eyes. She blinked hard, forcing herself to breathe, forcing herself to read.

To my beautiful daughter…

Her mother's voice seemed to whisper the words in her ear, gentle and warm, the way she used to read bedtime stories when Davina was small. The office around her faded—the polished wood, the ticking clock, the faint scent of old books and cologne. All she could feel was the ache in her chest, sharp and hollow.

By the time she reached the end of the letter, her hands had gone numb. She lowered the page slowly, staring at the ink as if it might rearrange itself into something else—something that didn't confirm her mother had known this day might come.

The room felt colder.

A gust of wind rattled the window behind her, and she flinched. Her cuts still burned beneath her sleeves, each one a reminder of the night she'd survived by inches. The night she lost everything.

She pressed the letter to her chest, curling forward as if trying to fold herself around the last piece of her mother she would ever receive. Her breath hitched. A small, broken sound escaped her before she could swallow it down.

For a long moment, she didn't move. She just sat there, letting the grief wash over her in slow, suffocating waves.

When she finally lifted her head, the office felt different—emptier, heavier. The shadows seemed longer. The silence louder.

Her gaze drifted to the door Robert had stormed through minutes earlier. His anger, his entitlement, his certainty that everything belonged to him… it all felt so distant now. So small. None of it mattered compared to the weight of the letter in her hands.

Her mother had been afraid.

Her mother had been preparing her.

Her mother had known something was coming.

Davina wiped her face with the back of her hand, smearing tears across her cheek. She looked down at the signature—Your loving mother—and something inside her shifted. Not strength, not yet. But a spark. A direction.

Elizabeth and Theodore.

Her cousins.

People she barely knew, but people her mother trusted enough to name in her final words.

Davina folded the letter carefully, smoothing the creases with trembling fingers. She slipped it back into the envelope and held it tightly, as if it were a lifeline.

The office door creaked open slightly—Sebastian, waiting quietly in the hall, giving her space but ready if she needed him. His silhouette lingered, patient, respectful.

Davina stood slowly, her legs unsteady but her resolve beginning to form like a fragile shell around her grief.

"I need to find Elizabeth and Theodore," she whispered.

Sebastian nodded once. "Of course."

As she stepped out of the office, the envelope pressed against her heart, Davina felt the faintest shift in the air—like the world was holding its breath, waiting for her next move.

And for the first time since the night of the m******e, she felt something other than pain.

She felt the beginning of purpose.

TO BE CONTINUED