Touch The Fire

3 : Beneath The Surface

" The more you hide a flame, the hotter it burns. “

***

The final bell rings, and the school releases its prisoners. Students flood the front lawn like a hive cracked open, laughing, shouting, pushing, scattering. I lean against the half brick wall near the gates, arms folded, trying not to look like I'm waiting.

I am, though. For Margot. For anything that makes this place feel a little less like a fever dream wrapped in concrete and secrets.

The sun peeks out from behind a cloud, shy and tentative, but warm. A breeze flits by, tugging at my skirt and ruffling the trees. I flick my fingers, just slightly, and the leaves around my feet leap up in a lazy spiral, soft and effortless. Like I didn't just spend the entire day pretending I'm normal.

These are the moments I cling to. The ones where I'm not clawing back control or swallowing a scream. The ones where it's just me. Just power. Just... peace.

But peace is fragile.

Dad's voice echoes in my head: Never when you're angry. Never when people are watching.

Lucinda's scream.

Lucinda's lies.

Dad created pills. Pills I'm supposed to take when it feels like I'm losing control, like there's a wildfire humming under my skin. They somehow suppress any big emotions that threaten to consume me. Except I didn't take one this morning. I didn't think I'd need it.

I knocked her out when I was seven. One outburst. One surge of fury. She hit the wall like a thrown doll.

He said she forgot.

I don't believe that.

And now I live in a constant balancing act: don't draw attention, don't lose control, don't let her know what I am.

Too late for that last one, maybe.

"You shouldn't be doing that here!" Margot's voice snaps me out of the haze.

The leaves crash to the ground, limp and dead again. I turn to her as she stomps toward me, backpack swinging, disapproval practically steaming from her ears.

"No one noticed," I say, pulling her into a hug. "And if you hadn't taken so long, I wouldn't have been bored enough to try."

She glares at me, tiny and fierce, but there's no real bite behind it.

Then someone walks past. Golden skin. Sea salt hair. Familiar.

Jake's sister.

She moves like the breeze itself, all effortless beauty and grace, and I hate how much I notice. How much of Jake I can see in her, except softer. Warmer. Her eyes, big and dark and curious, flick toward us and she smiles briefly before gliding toward the parking lot like she's floating.

Then I see him.

Jake.

Leaning against his stupid black car like it's an extension of his ego. Cigarette tucked between his lips. Half smiling at some girl with copper hair and too much perfume.

The smile disappears when the girl slams the car door. He stiffens, jaw ticking, annoyance flashing across his face before his eyes, stormy and sharp, lock onto mine.

Like I've done something offensive just by existing.

Seriously, what is his problem?

I don't blink. I narrow my eyes, matching his glare with one of my own. The air between us stretches taut, full of things I don't understand and don't want to.

Then I break it. I grab Margot's wrist and walk away, like he's beneath my notice.

But I can feel him. Still watching. That heat behind my neck isn't the sun, it's him.

"If we're walking this fast, can you at least make it easier?" Margot pants beside me.

I glance down. "Didn't you just tell me not to use my powers?"

"No one's around now!" she says with a grin, throwing her arms wide like a stage performer. "Come on. Please?"

I roll my eyes. But she's smiling, really smiling, and it's like a tiny light in the fog that's been building all day.

"Fine," I say, pretending to groan. "But low flight only. Like, hoverboard height. And if anyone sees us, you run like your life depends on it."

Margot nods solemnly like she's just signed a secret pact with a faerie queen.

I release the tether inside me, just a little. It hums, familiar and electric. My skin prickles as we lift off the ground. Margot grabs my hand and lets out a whoop as we shoot forward, just skimming the sidewalk.

We're weightless. Free.

She tries to "run" in the air and ends up flailing like a fish. I laugh, loud and real, and for a moment, the day feels manageable again.

Until I see the car.

Our driveway.

A sleek, black vehicle pulling in, its windows dark and reflective like a threat.

I slam us down too hard. My feet hit pavement like anchors. Margot stumbles and squeaks, but I catch her shirt and steady her.

The car door opens.

And for a full heartbeat, I'm sure it's her.

But it's Dad.

Relief trickles in, but just barely. He's unloading grocery bags, which means people. Lucinda only sends him shopping when we're hosting. I glance at Margot, who's already figured it out.

Great. Company.

"Ah, girls, bring the rest in, will you?" Dad calls, juggling far too many bags. "Then go see your mother. We're having a little get together, and she's laid out what to wear."

"She's not my mother," I snap before I can catch it.

The air thickens instantly. His face changes, smile gone, eyes shadowed. The kind of silence that screams.

I don't apologize. I just walk to the trunk and start unloading bags.

"It would've been nice to know about our family history here," I say calmly, almost too calmly. "Why didn't you tell us?"

He exhales like he's been waiting for this moment. "I should've. I'm sorry. I was going to—"

"Before or after I got blindsided in the middle of lunch with the fact we're founding family royalty?"

He winces. "I didn't want it to change anything."

"It already has."

We carry the bags into the house, and every corner of the foyer looks wrong. Like a haunted memory dressed in new paint. Like Lucinda tried to bleach the past off the walls.

"So why did you leave?" I ask. "The real reason."

"For work," he says, and I want to laugh. Of course it was for work. It's always for work. His marriage, his family, his roots, they're all just detours on his way to some corner office.

"And Lucinda?"

He hesitates.

"There was nothing here that could help me get to where I am now. And if I hadn't left..." His voice drops, a melancholy whisper, "I wouldn't have met Elizabeth."

Just hearing her name makes something in my chest ache. My mum. We barely talk about her anymore, Lucinda made sure of that. I once overheard that Lucinda and Dad dated in high school. He broke up with her and ended up with my mum instead. That probably explains her never ending jealousy, how we remind her of the life she couldn't have. Of the woman she could never be.

That also means this is Lucinda's home town too. Not that I've ever asked her about where she grew up, but it's still odd that neither of them have mentioned this place. I need some answers, fast, before my head explodes.

But before I can ask another question, the air shifts, and I know she's here.

"Enough of that," Lucinda's voice cuts through the air like broken glass. "Go to your rooms and get ready. You have two hours to make yourselves presentable."

She looks me up and down like I'm something sticky on the bottom of her designer heel.

"Who exactly are we dressing up for?" I ask, not bothering to hide my sarcasm. I reach for Margot's arm and gently guide her away from Lucinda's line of fire.

"Our childhood friends," Dad offers, trying to diffuse the tension. "The other founding families. A few council members."

Council members?

Okay. So this is a cult.

"Right," I say flatly, and turn toward the stairs. These kinds of events never end well for me. And now that I know Jake Turner, and the rest of the local teen royalty, will be attending, I already know tonight will be no exception.

"Clara, dear," Lucinda calls. I stop but don't turn around. "Let's be on our best behavior tonight. We want to show everyone how lovely our family is."

Her voice is sugar coated poison. I clench my fists, grit my teeth, and bolt up the stairs without another word.

•••

I stare at my reflection in the mirror and sigh.

The dress is... fine. Pretty, even. Just not my style. Off the shoulder with long sleeves, black mesh stripes around the waist, delicate lace and pearl detailing. I'm grateful for the sleeves, still hiding bruises from this morning, and that the skirt flows loosely to just above my knees instead of clinging to every inch of me.

All though the black tights stay on, keeping the blooming bruises and cuts hidden. Like Lucinda said, we're a lovely family, there should be no reason for those marks to be on my body. The last thing I want to do is play dress up and put on a show for strangers, I want answers. Maybe I'll get some tonight, small towns love to gossip.

I move to the vanity, eyes scanning over my jewelry. A pearl necklace with matching earrings catches my eye. I put them on, and, okay... the look is complete. The pearls match the dress, and for once, I actually feel put together.

I touch up my makeup, making all the colours in my hazel eyes pop, step into black heels, and brace myself for whatever chaos is waiting downstairs.

The house is crowded now. Unfamiliar faces everywhere. Music floats through the air, soft and expensive. I slide between people without saying a word, sticking to my rule: Don't talk unless spoken to. It saves me from getting cornered by someone who wants to trauma dump about their divorce or pitch me on some weird pyramid scheme.

I grab two champagne glasses from a passing waiter's tray and down the first one. The bubbly liquid makes me grimace, and I shake my head, my short blond curls bouncing across my face. Champagne tastes like regret. But if I'm going to survive this night, I'll take what I can get.

"Not a fan of champagne either?" a deep voice teases behind me.

I spin, thinking I've been caught, but relax, sort of, when I see Tate Walkman and Jake Turner.

Of course. Just my luck.

Tate looks like he's dressed for a stockholder meeting, light blue button down, cream slacks, brown Oxfords. Meanwhile, Jake's all broody leather and black denim. No surprises there.

"Not really," I say, scanning the room. "But it'll do anything to make this night fly by."

My gaze lands on Dad and Lucinda, smiling and performing like puppets in front of some well dressed strangers. I scoff without thinking and tip back the second glass.

"Not a fan of your mum and dad's affectionate side, huh?" Tate jokes.

And that's it. That's the match that lights the fuse.

My body tenses. I turn slowly to face him, flames already licking up the inside of my ribcage. He doesn't even realise what he's said, but Jake does. I see it in his face, the way he watches me, cautious. Familiar with the way anger builds.

"What did you just say?" I take a step closer. I'm in Tate's face now, and to my annoyance, he looks... amused. Like he wants to provoke me. Like he wants to see what I'll do with all this fire inside me.

He glances at Jake like he's waiting for backup, but Jake just stares at him like he's a moron. The air between Tate and me crackles. My hands are fists, my jaw is clenched, and then—

A cold, snake like grip curls around my shoulder.

Lucinda.

"Clara, dear," she croons, her smile sharp and terrifying. "Remember what we talked about earlier."

I pull back slightly, forcing my expression into something resembling polite interest. "Of course," I say quietly.

"Wonderful. Now be a good girl and get your father and I something to drink. We'll be in the living room, with your two friends."

The grip on my shoulder tightens. Not enough to leave marks, at least not visible ones, but just enough to remind me who's in charge.

I nod. I don't trust myself to speak again.

Lucinda releases me with a look that could freeze lava and struts off. Tate follows without another word. I turn toward the kitchen, heart pounding, head spinning, and then a hand clamps around my arm.

I wince and pull away instinctively, cradling the spot Lucinda gripped this morning.

Jake.

His expression is carved from stone, but his eyes... they betray him. There's something raw in them. Anger. Understanding. Maybe both.

"What happened to your arm?" he asks, his voice low and curious.

I blink, then say the first lie I can think of. "Burned it curling my hair."

He doesn't believe me. I can tell. He scans my body, eyes roaming from my shoulders down to my legs. Like he can see what's beneath the black fabric, see through the facade Lucinda is forcing us to put on.

"Right..." he says finally. "Well, don't keep your mother waiting. Tate and I will keep her company."

The way he says mother makes my stomach twist, but I nod. I don't ask why he's helping, or if this is help at all.

I just walk away, keeping my head down.

My arm tingles where Jake had held it, along the light purpling of Lucinda's hand print. I cast my eyes down and realise my sleeve is tugged up, revealing the start of the bruise. A perfect replica of my stepmothers long, slender, spider like fingers.

I pull the sleeve down, eyes flaring as I chance a look over my shoulder, at Jake. But he's already passing through the archway.

Gone to join the woman who leaves bruises in the shape of control. And for once, I'm glad. Because if he saw, if anyone saw...

I don't know what would happen.

But I don't think I could control it.