Chapter 5: The night he burned for her
1525 Words
The next day marked the beginning of Phoebe’s life outside the safety net of school. There were no bells, no structured schedules—only the uncertain rhythm of reality. Today, she was helping her mom at the bakery. Dressed in simple shorts, a fitted inner shirt beneath an oversized long shirt, and her hair tied into a messy bun, she walked into the warm, bustling air of the shop. The smell of flour, butter, and yeast wrapped around her like a blanket, grounding her even as the chaos of her thoughts buzzed in the back of her mind.
The bakery was already busy. The glass counter fogged with steam from the ovens. The hum of conversation, the whir of the mixer, the clink of coffee cups—everything felt louder today. But Phoebe worked, faster than usual, her body moving through the motions while her brain floated somewhere else. She noticed her mom looking pale, her movements sluggish, her hand often resting on her lower back.
“Mom, go home and rest. I’ve got this,” Phoebe insisted, stepping in before her mother dropped something.
Her mom hesitated. “Are you sure? What if it gets too busy?”
“I’ll manage. I promise. Go.”
She smiled softly. “Alright. But call Leah if anything goes wrong.”
Phoebe nodded and watched her leave, suddenly feeling very alone under the weight of responsibility. But she rolled her sleeves up and carried on—baking fresh batches of cookies, managing impatient customers, cleaning as she worked. Her hands were covered in flour and sugar, and time passed faster than she realized.
It was already close to 5 p.m. The sun had begun its descent, spilling golden light through the bakery windows.
“We’re closed,” she said to the last lingering customer, then exhaled and started cleaning the tables, exhaustion finally catching up with her.
“Is there no exception?”
The voice cut through the stillness like a razor. Phoebe turned sharply, her eyes narrowing.
“Hey, Martins. What are you doing here?”
He gave her a crooked smile. “I’m here for you, obviously.”
She shook her head, but a reluctant smile tugged at her lips. He pulled out a chair and sat.
They talked for a while. Nothing deep—just scattered pieces of yesterday and idle curiosity.
“I’m sorry about yesterday,” she said eventually.
“It’s fine.” His eyes narrowed curiously. “But how do you know Wesley?”
“It’s a long story,” she replied, brushing flour from her shirt. “Maybe for another day.”
“Alright.” He grinned. “Wanna hang out sometime?”
“Sure,” she said, already moving to the back to lock up. “At least no drama today.”
Her phone buzzed.
**Want me to kill someone for you, Phoeb?**
She froze. Her spine went rigid, her breath catching. She scanned the bakery. Just her and Martins.
“Is something wrong?” he asked, watching her carefully.
“No... I better get going.” She snatched her bag and moved quickly toward the door.
As she walked down the darkening street, the weight of the message clung to her skin like a second layer. Her mind raced. That tone—it could only be Wesley. But she didn’t have his number. So how?
A shadow slid into her path.
“Who’s there?” she asked, already reaching for her phone.
It was Peter.
“Pete? What are you doing here?”
“Oh spare me,” he growled. “You think you can humiliate me and just walk away?”
She stepped back, but more shadows crept in—four more men closing in.
“If you touch me, Wesley will kill you,” she warned, her voice shaking.
Peter grinned, unhinged. “Let him. I’d like to see him try.”
He shoved her, and she stumbled into the side of his car, the cold glass pressing into her spine.
“You owe me. And I’m gonna collect,” he sneered, face inches from hers.
She bit his cheek, hard. Blood bloomed in her mouth as she tried to run, but two men grabbed her, pinning her arms.
From a distance, Mark watched. He dialed.
“Boss. Madam’s in trouble.”
“I’m on my way. Don’t lose sight of her,” Wesley replied.
Phoebe screamed, struggling. “Let me go, Peter!”
“You little b***h,” he snapped, dragging her back by her hair. His men were laughing, watching her exposed skin hungrily as Peter tore at her shirt.
A single shot rang out.
“LET HER GO!”
Wesley’s voice boomed like thunder. He stepped from the shadows, his silhouette sleek, black, deadly. A pistol in his hand. His eyes were molten steel.
“Step away from her. Now.”
Everyone froze.
“Phoebe. Get in the car,” he ordered, voice cold and commanding.
“I—”
“GET. IN. THE. f*****g. CAR.”
She scrambled toward the sleek black vehicle behind him. Her heart thudded so hard it hurt. She got in. The door slammed shut behind her.
Gunshots exploded behind her. One. Two. Three. Four. Screams. Then silence. When she dared to look up, blood stained the pavement. Bodies sprawled on the ground.
Wesley stood over Peter, gun aimed at his chest.
“Where did you touch her?”
“I—”
Another shot. Peter’s scream pierced the night as blood sprayed from his wrist.
“Anyone who touches her dies.”
Final shot. Peter's body collapsed in a crumpled heap.
Wesley turned, face unreadable. “Mark. Clean this mess.”
He tossed the gun to him and got into the car.
Phoebe stared at him, trembling.
“I know you’re terrified,” he said softly.
“Terrified?” Her voice cracked. “You just killed people! Five people!”
“And I’ll kill ten more if they so much as breathe wrong around you. You’re mine, Phoebe. No one touches you but me.”
“You’re sick.”
“Yes,” he said, leaning in closer, voice low. “And you’re my antidote.”
She flinched.
“You don’t even know how to say thank you,” he said with a dark smile.
“You want a thank-you for murder?” she hissed. “You’re more psychotic than I thought.”
“Sleep, Phoebe. I’ll wake you when we’re home.”
“Like hell I’m sleeping in your car.”
“If I wanted to hurt you, I’d do it while you’re awake.”
She looked away, heart pounding, but eventually let her head fall against the window. Her body betrayed her. Sleep dragged her under.
He parked. For a long moment, he watched her. The chaos inside him raged. She looked so innocent. So breakable.
He brushed his lips against her cheek. “We’re here.”
She stirred. “How long was I out?”
“An hour. You were snoring.”
“I don’t snore.”
He smirked. “Keep telling yourself that.”
She stepped out. “Bye.”
But he didn’t drive away. She turned, eyes narrowing.
“You’re still here?”
“I don’t want to leave.”
She walked back and slid into the passenger seat.
“Thanks… for showing up. Even if it was terrifying.”
“I didn’t do it for gratitude. I did it because the idea of you hurting—of someone else touching you—I couldn’t stand it.”
Silence.
“Wesley...” she whispered.
He reached out, brushing hair from her face. She didn’t stop him. His hand lingered on her cheek. She leaned into it.
Then he kissed her.
It started as curiosity. Soft. Uncertain. Then something darker surged beneath it. His hand slid to the back of her neck. Her fingers tangled in his shirt. Their breaths mingled, lips parting and pressing again, deeper this time.
She pulled away first, dazed. “Goodnight, Wesley.”
He didn’t move. “Goodnight, Phoebe.”
She got out, walking backward toward her house. But he stayed.
She appeared again at the doorway, confused. “Why are you still here?”
“I don’t want this to end like that. Like it didn’t mean something.”
She stepped toward him. “It meant something.”
He closed the distance between them. His fingers found her wrist, gently tugging her forward until her body was flush with his.
“Let me hold you.”
She melted into him. He wrapped his arms around her tightly. Her fingers clutched his back.
“I’ve never felt like this before,” she confessed.
“I’d burn down cities for you,” he whispered. “That scares me.”
“Don’t break me,” she murmured.
“I’d rather die.”
Another kiss—slower, deeper, more dangerous. When they parted, their eyes held.
“Goodnight again,” she whispered.
“Goodnight, Phoebe.”
He watched until her light turned on upstairs, then disappeared into the night, carrying the weight of a promise he knew he couldn’t afford to break.
- Writer
