Chapter 33: Wrath of an Exile: Chapter 32

December 5th

“Where the fuck is she?”

The words come out jagged, like barbed wire tearing at my throat. I barely recognize my own voice, low and broken with a desperation that feels foreign—like it belongs to someone else.

Tex Matthews grins, his bloodshot eyes alight with a twisted kind of amusement. “I told you, dude. I watched her head out with Oakley when we got here. Guess the vixen opens her legs for anyone these days.”

The words don’t just hit; they detonate.

I see red—no, I become it.

Before I know what I’m doing, I’ve grabbed Tex by the collar and slammed his head into the edge of the table. The sickening thud is the only sound I hear, wet and brutal, reverberating through Tilly’s diner like a violent promise.

But it’s not enough.

The rage inside me is too wild, too vicious, and it needs more than just the feel of Tex’s skull cracking under my hands.

Tex coughs, a bloody tooth spilling from his mouth as he tries to catch his breath. “You’re out of your mind, Sinclair,”

“Where did he take her?” I snarl, yanking him closer, the stench of blood and sweat thick between us. “Where is she, Tex?”

“I told you!” he shouts, his body shaking in my grip. “I don’t know!”

I shove him back, disgust churning in my gut.

I can’t fucking breathe.

My chest is too tight, every breath coming in hurts. I try to steady myself, to clear my head, but all I can think of is Phi—her voice, her laugh, her.

And the terrifying realization that I might never see her again.

I just got her.

Fuck, I haven’t even really gotten her yet.

The thought of losing her now, before she’s fully mine, is a weight that crushes every bit of breath from my lungs.

I jump into my car, hands shaking as I fumble with the keys. My grip is unsteady, the tremble in my fingers showing the panic I can’t hide. I drive faster than I should, tires screeching on wet pavement as I tear through Ponderosa Springs, trying to piece together every step Oakley would have taken, every dark corner he could’ve dragged her into.

The fear inside me is primal, raw—a wild animal thrashing against the walls of its cage, desperate for freedom. I’ve never felt like this, this suffocating blend of anger, terror, and helplessness so deep it feels like my lungs are filling with lead, dragging me under. Every breath is a struggle, a fight just to stay above the surface.

I burst into Oakley’s trailer, the stench of stale beer and rot slapping me in the face. I rip open doors, kick over tables, my shouts tearing through the air, her name bouncing back at me, unanswered.

Nothing.

I rush to St. Gabriel’s, the place where both our ghosts still linger. My hands shake as I break down the door, shouting into the empty, darkened halls. The silence is suffocating, a void that swallows every sound I make. It’s a quiet that’s haunted me since childhood, a kind of empty that feels like it’s always been there, waiting.

Still nothing.

I drive.

And I keep driving.

Two missed calls.

I’d missed two of her calls earlier.

My fucking phone had died, and now it feels like a death sentence. I replay it over and over—my screen going black, my charger left on the kitchen counter, two calls I never answered.

She needed me and I wasn’t there.

I slam my fist against the steering wheel, the impact jarring up my arm, splitting my knuckles open.

“Fuck!”

My scream is ragged, raw, a sound ripped straight from my chest. It’s not just rage—it’s regret, the kind that eats away at you from the inside.

This is not what I wanted.

This is not how I wanted this go.

But the longer I wait, the longer Phi is with Oakley, and I don’t even want to fucking think about what he’s doing to her. The thoughts that flash in my mind are brutal, unrelenting, and I hate myself for every one of them. My heart feels like it’s being squeezed in a fist—tightening with each passing second, each unanswered call, each empty road.

I know I should be angry.

I should be raging, ready to rip Oakley’s head clean from his shoulders. Anger has always been my first instinct—sharp, immediate, like a match striking against flint. It’s always been there for me, this wild, uncontrollable force, a shield and a weapon all at once.

But right now, my rage is buried alive, suffocating beneath layers of a much darker, more brutal emotion.

Panic.

Fear claws at me from the inside, twisting my gut, tightening my chest until every breath feels like it’s being torn out of me. It’s a desperate, gut-wrenching feeling that swallows everything else whole.

I’ve begged God before in my life.

As a kid, I used to get down on my knees and beg God for things—love, safety, redemption—until my knees were bruised and raw. Purple and blue marks that felt like penance for a salvation that never came. I can still feel them now, aching beneath my skin, a reminder of every unanswered plea.

I swore that no man, no god, no force in this fucked-up world would ever see me on my knees again. Not in pleading, not in desperation, not in the kind of hollow, gut-wrenching need that rips your dignity to shreds and leaves it scattered like ashes in the wind.

But for her?

I’d kneel.

I’d grovel like Prometheus, chained to the rock, enduring agony every day for a stolen fire I was never meant to touch. I’d suffer, I’d bleed, I’d pray to gods I’ve long since forsaken if only for the hope that she was okay.

And that’s why I don’t hesitate. Not for a single second.

I stumble out of the car the moment it jerks to a stop, legs barely holding me as I make my way up the marble steps. My chest is burning, aching with an undying fire that’s searing through me, threatening to consume everything in its path.

The door opens with a thud that echoes through the house, a desperate, harrowing sound.

I storm into the living room, not even noticing the handful of people gathered there. Their faces blur together, concern etched into features I can’t focus on, voices calling my name that I can’t register.

Because they aren’t who I’m looking for.

Rook Van Doren can kill me for loving her later.

I push past them, each step frantic, my feet barely keeping up with the frantic beat of my heart. I don’t stop until I’m in front of Rook’s office, my palms slamming into the heavy wooden door. It swings open, the smell of cigar smoke immediately filling my lungs.

Rook’s head snaps up, his brows furrowed with confusion, his voice a gruff mutter. “Jude?”

But the moment he sees my face, something shifts. The confusion disappears, replaced by a cold, deadly focus.

“What happened?”

“Phi,” I choke out, the word leaving me like a broken prayer. I can’t stop the tears burning at the corners of my eyes, but I don’t care. I don’t give a fuck if he sees me like this. “Seraphina, Phi, she…”

My throat closes, the words strangling me, the panic finally breaking through. I reach out, trying to steady myself by grabbing for the back of a leather chair, but I miss. My legs give way beneath me, and I crash to the floor, knees slamming against the hardwood with a hollow, resounding thud.

The pain barely registers. It’s drowned out by the burning in my chest, an unbearable pressure that’s threatening to swallow me whole.

Don’t panic, Jude. Don’t panic.

Don’t panic, Jude. Don’t panic.

Don’t panic, Jude. Don’t panic.

“Jude, hey, kid, look at me.”

Rook’s voice is closer now, low and steady. I feel his hands on my face, rough palms holding me up, forcing me to meet his gaze. His eyes are fierce, focused, but there’s something else there, too, and it mirrors the fear in mine.

“What happened?” Rook demands, voice breaking through the haze of panic that’s suffocating me. “Where is Phi?”

I know I should answer, but my chest is caving in, my lungs refusing to fill. My mouth opens, but the words are tangled in the back of my throat, choking me.

I don’t care if it makes me weak. I don’t care if he sees me like this—broken, desperate, begging.

“Phi,” I finally manage, my voice nothing more than a shattered whisper. “I can’t find her. Oakley…Oakley Wixx has her, and I can’t find her.”

My voice cracks, tears spilling over despite my best efforts to hold them back.

“I don’t have anyone,” I choke out, the words breaking like glass. “Rook, please.”

For a moment, there’s a heavy silence, as if even the air itself is holding its breath. And then, without warning, Rook’s hand is at the back of my head, gripping tight.

Rook’s grip tightens around me, his broad hand cradling the back of my head as I collapse against his chest. My forehead presses into the rough fabric of his shirt, and the smell of stale cigar smoke and bourbon fills my nose.

His heartbeat thuds beneath my skin—steady, grounding, a rhythm that contrasts sharply with the chaos inside me. I let it anchor me, let it be the only thing holding me upright as my chest heaves with desperate, ragged breaths.

“Breathe, Jude. Just breathe.”

I grit my teeth, the taste of salt and iron heavy on my tongue, my throat closing around a sob that I refuse to let escape.

“I should’ve been there,” I whisper, the words barely audible, but heavy with guilt. “I should’ve⁠—”

“It’s not your fault, Jude.” Rook interrupts harshly, “This is not your fault.”

The words hit like a punch, unexpected and almost too much to take. I try to pull away, to retreat back into the familiar comfort of my anger, but Rook doesn’t let me. His hands stay steady, holding me in place, refusing to let me crumble under the weight of my own guilt.

I can barely hear anything past the roar of blood in my ears, past the sound of my own heart hammering wildly against my ribs.

And then, a sudden, piercing sound shatters the heavy silence.

My phone is ringing.

And when I answer, I’m reminded of why Seraphina Van Doren never needed anyone to slay her dragons.

She is one.

December 6th

“Seraphina sustained severe trauma to her head, face, and body. She’s suffered multiple facial fractures, including a broken nose and cheekbone. The impact to her head caused a significant concussion, and she’s currently in a medically-induced coma to manage the brain swelling.”

I lean back against the cold, sterile wall, the unforgiving tile biting into my spine through my thin T-shirt. The smell of antiseptic clings to the air, mixing with the staleness of shitty hospital food wafting from somewhere down the hall.

My arms are draped over my knees, head bowed, eyes burning but dry.

I don’t know how long I’ve been here. Time doesn’t really move the same way when you’re numb. Everything just feels like a blur of white walls, hollow footsteps, and a constant, monotonous beeping echoing faintly from other rooms.

My chest feels empty, like someone has hollowed me out, scooped out my insides, and left nothing behind but a dull, aching void.

I should be feeling something—anger, pain, fear—but right now there’s nothing.

Just numbness.

A paralyzing, suffocating numbness that’s settled into my bones like ice.

“Her ribs are badly bruised, and she has a fracture along the right side—likely from the blows she endured.”

The hallway feels too bright, too clean for the molten black turmoil I’m carrying inside me. I stare blankly at the scuffed linoleum floor, counting the cracks, tracing the faded patterns with a kind of desperate focus.

I need something to keep me tethered, something to hold onto because everything else feels like it’s slipping through my fingers.

“The next twenty-four to forty-eight hours are crucial, especially with the head injury. The swelling in her brain needs to subside before we can be more definitive about her recovery. She’s strong, and given the extent of her injuries, it’s remarkable she managed to stay conscious to escape the fire.”

I take a shaky breath, my throat burning with the effort. I close my eyes, the darkness behind my eyelids offering no comfort, only the same crushing, unrelenting reality. I press the heels of my palms into my eyes, trying to force the tears back, trying to force the images of Phi—broken, bleeding, helpless—out of my mind.

But they don’t leave. They cling to me, relentless, haunting echoes that won’t let go. Each one feels like a knife twisted into my chest, a cruel reminder that I wasn’t there when she needed me most.

I should’ve been there.

The guilt is a living, breathing thing inside me. It gnaws at my insides, piece by piece, devouring whatever is left of my heart.

It’s the kind of pain that doesn’t just hurt—it hollows you out, leaves you feeling empty, a wound that will never close.

We didn’t have enough time. The world didn’t give us enough time.

And maybe it never would have.

I don’t know what I did—what I did in this life or the last one—to deserve this kind of punishment.

All I wanted was one good thing. Just one.

I wonder if I had the right to believe I deserved something like Phi. Was it stupid to think that someone like me could have her? That I could be worthy of the sun?

Or was I always destined to be the moon?

We’d had our brief eclipse and it was over.

Because maybe the Sinclair name meant I could never truly love anything without destroying it in the process.

I hear a familiar, steady cadence of footsteps approaching. I don’t look up, but I know it’s Rook. I recognize the sound of his shoes against the linoleum—the determined, deliberate weight of them.

He stops beside me, the weight of his presence suddenly heavy. I know he blames me, and that’s okay. I find no fault in him for that. All Rook had done was try to keep history from repeating itself and my pride forced me to ignore him.

Finally, he moves, lowering himself to the floor, letting out a little groan as his knees creak.

Rook sits next to me, leaning back against the wall in a mirror of my posture.

The silence stretches, but I don’t know how to break it. I don’t even know if I want to.

So we just sit there.

Two men bound by love for a girl who’s fighting for her life behind a set of closed doors we can’t enter.

“She’s stubborn, you know,” Rook finally says, voice rough but steady. “Always has been.”

I swallow hard, my throat dry and raw. “I know.”

“She wouldn’t let me teach her how to ride a bike without training wheels,” he continues, a faint, tired smile flickering at the corner of his mouth. “Kept falling, skinning her knees, crying—god, she cried so much—but she never once asked me to help her up.”

My mouth waters, bile sitting in the bottom of my throat.

I can almost see it—little Phi, stubborn and relentless, refusing to let anyone help her, even when her knees were scraped raw and bloody. I can picture her tiny, furious determination, the way she must’ve squared her jaw, set fire in her eyes, and tried again.

Stubborn girl.

“You and I—” Rook starts, then pauses, finding his footing, “You and I are far more similar than I wanted to admit, Jude. My wife has more grace with these kinds of things, but I know what it’s like to bare scars from a man who is supposed to protect you.”

I stare down at the floor, my jaw tightening. The familiar weight of old wounds presses against my chest, and suddenly it’s not just about Phi anymore. It’s about fathers and sons, about all the things we carry because of men who never learned how to be anything but broken.

“You don’t have to do this.”

Part of me wants him to stop, wants to keep the distance between us. It’s safer that way, isn’t it?

To stay bitter, to keep him at arm’s length, to hold onto the anger that’s been a shield for as long as I can remember.

But the other part—the part that’s breaking apart with every second Phi stays in that room—wants to let him in, to let this be the start of something that isn’t built on hate.

Something good for Phi.

Because I know, the man sitting next to me is her entire world. Her father is her hero and how can she love me if I hate him?

“I do. I owe you an apology. For punishing you for things you didn’t do. I know that you’re not Easton. That you are more than your last name. I know that better than anyone, Jude. I just, I didn’t want to⁠—”

“You didn’t want to lose them,” I finish for him. “I know. I don’t fault you for protecting your family, Rook. Never have.”

And it’s true.

For all the resentment I’ve harbored, for all the ways I’ve hated him, I’ve always understood this one thing. I know what it’s like to love someone so fiercely that it scares you. I know what it’s like to build walls around the people you care about, even if it means keeping others out.

I did it for my dad, even though he never deserved it. Anytime his name was harshly mentioned, anger would flare in me. Because even though he was a monster to this town, to me? He was still my father.

“She’s gonna make it,” I tell him, not sure if I’m saying it for me or for him.

“Yes, she will.”