Chapter 4: HEAT RISING
Neil was waiting when I walked through the door.
He stood in the hallway like a roadblock, arms crossed, filling the space between the living room and the stairs. The pose was calculated—I recognized it from Billy's memories. This was Neil in confrontation mode, the prelude to violence dressed up as parental concern.
"Where the hell have you been?"
I set my keys on the entry table. Took my time about it. "Out."
"Out." He made the word sound like an accusation. "You disappeared at breakfast. Missed dinner. Your mother's been worried sick."
Susan appeared in the kitchen doorway behind him, dish towel twisted in her hands. Not my mother. Billy's stepmother. The woman who'd married this man and brought her daughter into his orbit. She looked smaller than she had this morning, shoulders hunched like she was already bracing for impact.
"I went for a drive," I said. "Needed to clear my head."
"Clear your head." Neil stepped closer. The hallway shrank. "You think you're too good for this family now? Think you can just come and go without telling anyone?"
The familiar heat stirred in my chest. I pushed it down.
"I'm telling you now. I went for a drive. I'm back."
"Don't you talk to me like that." Another step. Close enough now that I could smell the beer on his breath, see the broken capillaries in his nose. "You don't lie to me, boy. You don't disrespect me in my own house."
"Neil." Susan's voice was barely audible. "Maybe he just needed some space. It's summer, teenagers—"
Neil spun on her. "Did I ask you?"
His hand came up. Not a fist—open palm, ready to backhand. Susan flinched back against the doorframe. In my peripheral vision, I caught movement: Max, frozen at the kitchen table, spoon halfway to her mouth.
I didn't think. Didn't plan. My hand shot out and caught Neil's wrist mid-swing.
The heat came without permission. It flooded from my chest down my arm, concentrating in my fingers where they wrapped around his flesh. My skin glowed—faint orange, like coals banked for the night.
Neil hissed. Tried to pull away. My grip held.
"Don't," I said quietly. "Touch. Her."
The temperature in the hallway climbed. Susan pressed herself against the wall, eyes wide. Max hadn't moved, hadn't breathed. Neil's face cycled through confusion, pain, and something I'd never seen there before: fear.
"What—" His voice cracked. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
I released him. He stumbled backward, cradling his wrist against his chest. Even from two feet away, I could see the red mark forming where my fingers had been. Not a burn, exactly. More like a brand in the shape of a grip.
"Nothing's wrong with me." I kept my voice level. Calm. The heat retreated back into my chest, settling into its usual simmer. "But if you raise your hand to anyone in this house again, you'll find out how much worse it can get."
Neil's mouth opened. Closed. His eyes kept dropping to his wrist, then back to my face, trying to reconcile what he'd felt with anything in his experience.
He had nothing. No category for this. No response prepared.
"You're a freak," he finally managed. The word came out shaky. "Something's wrong with you."
"Maybe." I stepped past him, heading for the stairs. "But I'm the freak who lives here now. Get used to it."
I made it to my room before the shaking started.
Not fear—I'd faced down men worse than Neil Hargrove in my old life, even if they'd had different weapons. This was adrenaline dump, the body's chemical aftermath of confrontation. My hands trembled as I closed the door, leaned against it, tried to breathe.
That had felt good.
Not just the power—though that was part of it. The look on his face. The moment when he realized the rules had changed. All those years of Billy's memories, the beatings and humiliations and quiet desperation, and I'd just rewritten the entire dynamic in thirty seconds.
I looked at my palm. Normal now. No glow, no visible heat. But I could feel it waiting, ready to answer if I called.
My stomach growled. The heat display had cost something—not much, but enough to register. I'd need to eat soon. Tomorrow I'd find more food. Tonight I'd ride out the hunger and process what had just happened.
Through the door, I heard footsteps. Neil's voice, muffled: "—freak, I'm telling you, something's wrong—"
Then Susan, quieter: "Neil, please. Just leave it alone tonight."
More footsteps. A door slamming. Then silence.
I sat on my bed and stared at my hands. The trembling was fading now, replaced by something like exhaustion. Using the fire cost calories, but the emotional expenditure was its own kind of drain.
Worth it, though. The image of Neil's face—that beautiful moment of recognition when he understood he wasn't the apex predator anymore—was going to sustain me for a long time.
I flexed my fingers. No flame appeared, but the warmth was there. Constant now. A pilot light that never went out.
Somewhere in the house, Max was probably processing what she'd seen. Susan was probably trying to understand why her husband's wrist was burned. Neil was probably drinking and plotting and trying to figure out how to reassert control.
Let him try. I had fire. I had knowledge. I had a body built for violence and a mind that remembered dying.
Whatever came next, I was ready.
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