INTERLUDE III
- The National Park – neutral territory now claimed by The Reapers, 3:45a.m. 5 days after the crash.
- Weather: Clear, cooling (12°C)
- Asher and {{user}} on the run, Ezra sending Kai after them. Noah is searching for them in Harlow's Escalade.
Walking into the bloody remains of his men was not what Ezra had expected. Yet there he stood, trembling with barely contained fury in the corridor that was supposed to lead to his most secure room.
From where he stood, towering over the mangled bodies of half-dead and fully dead Reaper men, he could see the splintered doorway at the end of the hall, mocking him like a sneer carved into wood, daring him to find out what had slipped through his fingers.
She was gone. That much he knew. He didn’t need to step into the room, he’d seen everything on the CCTV.
How the fuck had that rat gotten into the compound let alone wiped out a house crawling with hostiles?
He’d underestimated them. Scrambling the Phantoms and taking out their leader was supposed to break them, not bait a response. What he hadn’t counted on was Asher fucking King storming in to take her back.
Ezra was going to kill them all. That much was certain.
The Phantoms were proving more resilient than expected—especially when it came to her and their territory.
Maybe, he thought bitterly, they really do see her as one of their own now.
With a low growl of frustration, he spun on his heel, shoving the carnage from his mind and shifting into calculation. Others would clean up. The dead would be replaced. That part was routine.
The weapons room was cold and uninviting, its silence pierced only by the hum of the monitors lining the far wall. Kai was already there, waiting and coiled and restless like a loaded gun. Ezra had only stepped out of the safe house to meet with his second when the system alarms flared. They'd rushed back, but not fast enough. Not fast enough to stop her from slipping away with the younger King.
Kai paced near the centre of the room, his fists clenched at his sides, tension radiating from every line of his frame. Ezra noted the stiffness in his movements, the violence simmering beneath his black jumper. He wasn’t just waiting, he was holding back, waiting for the word. They were his men dead in the hallways. Retribution needed to be swift.
Ezra halted in front of the largest screen, eyes fixed on the footage already playing back. Frame by frame, the escape unfolded. His expression was stone, jaw clenched as he tracked her movement through each camera angle.
Asher King appeared, dragging her with him—one hand gripping her wrist, the other pressed tightly to his side, blood soaking through his shirt. Ezra’s eyes narrowed.
She trusts him. Her eyes were tightly closed, her body slack against his as he led her through the aftermath of his own damn slaughter.
“He’s wounded.” Kai said from over his shoulder.
Ezra didn’t respond at first, just nodded once, teeth grinding audibly as he stared at the screen.
The final camera showed them vanishing into the treeline beyond the yard.
“And his fucking bike is still parked on the road,” Ezra muttered. “Which means they’re on foot.”
His voice was quiet now, however behind it was a storm. One that promised no one walked away from this. Not him. Not her. And especially not Asher King.
“Kai.” Ezra glanced over his shoulder, voice razor-sharp. “Find them. You don’t touch her, understood? King, though… bring him to me alive. Though I don’t care how close to death he is when he gets here.”
The temperature in the room seemed to drop, a chill settling deep into the concrete walls as Ezra gave the order.
Kai’s smile stretched, slow and twisted—predatory, hungry. He was the Reaper’s loaded weapon, and he’d finally been given permission to tear off the safety and hunt.
“You know me, Ez,” He said lowly, his voice barely a hum. “When I’m done with him… He won’t even remember what breathing without pain feels like.”
The bleeding had stopped, for now. Asher’s wound had been clumsily stitched by her shaking hands, then wrapped tight with gauze, the bandages already spotted with red. He was pale, his breathing shallow and fast as he clung to what little strength he had, lying motionless on the worn-out cot.
They’d been laying low too long. He knew it. She knew it. Every second they lingered here brought death closer.
When Asher finally opened his eyes again, they went straight to her.
She was seated at his feet, back pressed to the wall, eyes fixed on the windows and tracking every shadow that passed. One hand was tensed in her lap, the other hidden in her jacket sleeve. Tension lived in her shoulders, but her focus never wavered.
Anyone could find them. And yet, she was ready. Watching. Guarding him.
Something twisted in his chest, it something more than pain. Her vigilance moved him.
“Trouble,” he murmured her nickname, voice rough with disuse and dehydration.
She turned instantly at the sound.
“We need to move. Now.”
He felt it—the cold creeping in. Not just from the blood loss, but something deeper. A gut-deep warning carved from instinct and years of survival. Something was coming. Or worse. Someone.
Asher gritted his teeth and forced himself upright, a low groan escaping as pain knifed through his side and up into his ribs. Every nerve screamed in protest, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. Weakness wasn’t an option. Not now. Not in front of her.
She was faster—already off the bed and moving toward him. Before he could protest, her arms slid under his, bracing him with what strength she could muster.
His pride flared, but it was already too late, his weight pressing down on her as he rose to stand.
Shit. She sees right through me.
“Let go,” Asher murmured, voice low but firm. His hands pressed against her shoulders, steady as he rose to his full height despite the pain grinding through his ribs.
She hesitated for a second, and that pause nearly undid him.
He tilted his chin toward the kitchenette. “Check the drawers. Find a weapon, if we’re lucky.”
Keep her moving. Keep her sharp. If shit hit the fan—and it would—she needed something more than her bare hands.
As she turned away, Asher made his way to the window, his movements stiff but purposeful. He rested one hand against the frame and peered through the glass, eyes scanning the treeline like it might blink first. The forest was too quiet, the air hanging heavy with something wrong.
They were out of time. He could feel it.
Behind him, he heard the metallic clatter of a drawer opening, followed by the soft rasp of a blade being lifted. She’d found something. That brought a sliver of comfort he didn’t have time to entertain.
Still, when he glanced back and saw her gripping the small kitchen knife with white-knuckled tension, something in his chest pulled tight.
He should’ve told her it would be okay. Should’ve said something—anything.
But Asher wasn’t a liar.
So he turned back to the window, jaw set, watching the forest breathe like it was hiding something with teeth.
Then Asher saw it—a flicker of movement at the edge of the treeline. Something small, fast, and glowing.
A Molotov.
“{{user}}!” he barked, already moving.
He lunged across the room just as the window burst inward, shards of glass screaming through the air. His hand caught the back of her shirt, yanking her down and away without finesse, pulling her into his chest as he shielded her with his body.
Glass rained across the wooden floorboards. A second later, the green bottle slammed into the cabin and shattered—liquid fire blooming instantly.
Heat roared through the room.
“Fuck! MOVE!” Asher shouted, already hauling her toward their only exit— the door, as flames licked up the walls behind them.
She was exhausted—slow. And scared, too. A dangerous combination, and Asher knew it. Fear made people hesitate. Exhaustion made them fall.
“Go, go, go!” he shouted, lungs burning as they hit the porch and stumbled down the steps into the dirt.
His eyes swept the clearing, assessing every shadow for movement. His grip on her arm was iron-tight, nearly dragging her along—rough, but necessary. There was no time for gentleness. Not now. Not with their lives on the line.
He didn’t look at her. Didn’t ask if she was okay. He couldn’t afford it.
He just ran.
One foot in front of the other, guiding her into the trees, away from the direction that Molotov had come from. The cabin behind them crackled and roared, flames devouring what little safety they'd had.
His side throbbed with every step. He could feel the warm seep of blood under his shirt, but he clenched his jaw and pushed harder.
He knew he’d have to turn back and fight. They were being hunted—driven through the trees like deer in fucking open season. And under any other circumstances, Asher would’ve welcomed it. Cornered was when he was most dangerous.
But not tonight. Tonight, he was running on fumes, his strength bleeding out with every step. His body was failing him. All he had left was time—just enough to buy her some.
So Asher stopped, spinning her to face him. His blood-crusted hands cupped her cheeks to steady her, and he took the fading minute to look at her— really look.
He hated her, yet he didn’t. He was risking his life for her. The girl who’d shown up next door and enamoured every fucking one of them.
He was jealous of her. How she had weaved her way into his and the boys’ lives like she belonged there. Something he still struggled with.
“You get home,” He whispered, his grey eyes bleeding into hers, softening for the first time. “Don’t look back, trouble. You got it?”
He grabbed her wrist. Lifted it so the knife she was clutching with bone-white knuckles hovered between them.
“Anyone touches you, don’t hesitate.” He instructed her, “You fuck them up. I know you have that fire in you.”
It was the closest thing to care that he could muster in the moment. If he faltered or hesitated, she’d know it. And then she wouldn’t leave.
She was crying—he could see the shimmer of tears tracing down her cheeks in the moonlight, silent and unrelenting. He didn’t say everything he should have. Maybe he never would. But he knew she understood him anyway. She always had.
“The others will be looking for us,” he said quietly. “You’ll find them. And you go to Pierce. He needs you.”
His fingers slipped from her arm, the contact breaking like something final. He stepped back, jaw tight, forcing himself not to close the distance again.
Then he gave her a small nudge—firm, insistent.
“Go,” he murmured, his voice rough. “Keep going.”
She understood the weight of his words—and for once, she didn’t argue. No biting retort. No defiance. Just silence, and obedience.
For a year, he’d pushed her away. Hated her presence, her persistence, the way she kept getting involved in things that didn’t concern her. He’d told her to leave more times than he could count.
And now, as she finally did—turning her back and running from him—Asher felt something twist painfully inside him.
He thought he’d wanted this. But watching her disappear into the trees was somehow the hardest thing he’d ever brought himself to allow.
Noah had been searching nonstop. The second Asher’s phone dropped off their shared tracker—and Tavio and Mason wouldn’t meet his eye back at the house—he knew something was off.
Asher was gone.
He’d done exactly what they were all too scrambled to do. He’d gone after her.
The stupid, reckless idiot.
Noah had barely registered grabbing the keys to Harlow’s Escalade before the tires were screeching against asphalt. The Phantom Boys’ voices filled the speakers as he weaved through traffic, knuckles tight on the wheel.
“You let him go?” he barked, his voice rising with disbelief as he dodged between cars. “We don’t even know what the hell’s out there, and you just—what—watched him walk out the door like he’s bloody Rambo?”
Mason’s voice fired back instantly, tension sharp as glass.
“You were busy with Harlow and fallout control, Tavio’s been stuck at the hospital, and you know we can’t send Oscar into that mess. Are you actually serious right now?”
Noah scoffed into the cab, frustrated heat flushing his face.
“Asher was the only one who could reach her, and you all knew it. Or were you happy to let her slip through our fingers?” Mason continued, the english in his accent bleeding through.
“Besides, Noah. This is his job,” Tavio’s voice came steady through the speaker, always the cool one, always trying to keep things rational. “We all have our part to play, or it all falls apart.”
Noah’s hand slammed against the wheel. “It is falling apart!” he snapped, swerving hard around a van as the Escalade groaned in protest. “We’ve got no intel, no comms, no fuckin’ clue—”
He cut himself off mid-sentence, jaw tightening as his breath hitched. His shirt was clinging to his back, drenched in sweat. Panic was thick in his throat, his mind a storm of worst-case scenarios and everything left unsaid.
They were both out there—hurt, hunted, or worse—and he was stuck behind the wheel chasing shadows.
Noah’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel.
“If something’s happened to them…” he muttered, voice low, raw, like a fuse burning down. “I don’t think I’ll be able to come back from it.”
The others went quiet.
The only people who might’ve had any real clue about what they were up against were either laid up in a hospital bed or had vanished off the grid.
For a moment, the silence on the line was suffocating. Then Harlow’s voice cut through—smooth, steady, and deliberate. The kind of voice that made people listen.
It was the first real order anyone had given, and it grounded them. Without Pierce or Asher, someone had to step up. And Harlow did, like he always did when the pressure hit breaking point.
“Noah, find them,” he said, calm but firm. “You know what to do if you run into anyone who isn’t one of ours.”
There was a pause. Just long enough to let it sink in.
“Mason. Tav. Head to Waverley Lake—see what you can dig up about whoever the hell this new player is. The Bay’s turning into a war zone, and I don’t want us going in blind. Oscar and I will stay here and my girls will keep their ears out.”
That was the unspoken advantage of the Dollhouse. It had never just been Harlow’s R-rated hustle.
Behind the velvet curtains and designer heels, the place operated like a finely-tuned intelligence machine. From bartenders to floor managers, most of the women who worked for Harlow were Phantoms—trained to gather secrets, pass messages, and sniff out trouble before it ever spilled into their streets.
And everyone knew better than to underestimate them.
Even Noah, laid-back as he was, had enough sense not to cross one of Harlow’s girls. A few of them could make Asher look civilized when they were pissed off.
“Fine,” Noah bit out, his tone clipped as his foot sank harder onto the accelerator. The Escalade roared forward, tires spitting gravel as he tore into the edge of the national park—Asher’s last known location lighting up on the screen beside him.
“I’ll call back with anything,” he muttered.
He ended the call before anyone—especially Mason or Tavio—could feed him more excuses. His jaw clenched, eyes locking back on the road just as the SUV crested over a rise.
Then he saw it.
His stomach dropped.
Smoke.
Billowing in the distance—thin at first, curling through the canopy like a warning shot lit by moonlight. And it was coming from somewhere deep in the woods.
Smoke meant fire. And fire meant… Fucking hell.
Noah’s hands clenched the wheel, knuckles blanching as a rush of heat crawled up his spine—not from the car, but from memory.
Unwanted flashes surged through his mind—timber splintering, flames roaring, a childhood home swallowed in orange and ash. The way everything had smelled like grief for weeks afterward.
He hated fire.
Hated the way it took without mercy. Hated the scars it left—on skin, on soul, in places no one else could see.
And now it was here again. Was it coming for the people he still had left?
The tires shrieked against the gravel, spitting dust and rock as Noah wrenched the wheel into a sharp left turn onto a forgotten back road. The Escalade growled in protest, the engine roaring beneath him—but he didn’t let up.
Every instinct screamed at him to turn back, to get away from the smoke curling into the sky like a warning flare.
But they were there. He knew it.
In it? God, he hoped not.
Noah shoved the thought down, choking it before it could form into something worse. He couldn’t afford panic—not now.
He gritted his teeth and focused on the road ahead, willing the car to move faster. Just hang on. I’m coming.
The screen on the dash lit up, cutting through Noah’s tunnel vision as he barreled toward the smoke. His eyes flicked down for a split second—Oscar.
But the glare of the headlights caught something in the periphery—movement.
A figure.
His head snapped up just as a silhouette staggered out from the forest and crumpled onto the road.
“Fucking cunt!”
The curse tore from his throat as he yanked his foot off the accelerator and slammed it onto the brakes. The Escalade screeched in protest, skidding violently as the back tires struggled to grip the loose gravel.
Dust exploded around him, the vehicle fishtailing before it groaned to a shaky stop—mere feet from the crumpled figure in the headlights.