Page 142 of At First Spark
Chapter Twenty-six – Holt
The second I catch movement at the tree line, everything else drops away. Not fades—drops.
The storm becomes pressure instead of noise. The house behind me dissolves into the background until all that’s left is distance, direction, and the instinct that something is wrong in a way that can’t be ignored. Rook is already gone, a dark streak across the yard, and that alone is enough to shove adrenaline straight through my system.
That’s always the problem. He doesn’t hesitate and neither does she.
Lark is already pulling against my grip before I’ve fully tightened it around her wrist, her body angled toward the yard like she’s about to bolt after him.
“Don’t,” I say, sharper than I intend.
“I’m not leaving him out there.”
“I know.”
That’s exactly the problem.
Lightning splits the sky again, closer this time, illuminating the entire field in one brutal, frozen moment. The barn. The fence line. The trees. The place where I thought I saw movement. Gone as soon as the dark crashes back in.
“Inside,” I tell her, turning toward her, but she’s already shaking her head.
“No.”
“Lark—”
“I saw it.”
That stops me. Her voice isn’t panicked. It’s steady in a way that makes the air in my lungs feel suddenly thinner, because it means I didn’t imagine it. Rain drives sideways across the porch, cold and immediate, soaking through my shirt the second I step off the first stair. The ground gives under my boots, mud slick from the earlier storm, forcing me to adjust my footing without slowing down. I can hear her behind me—close, too close—but I don’t waste time telling her to go back.
She won’t.
“Rook!” she calls, her voice cutting through the wind.
No response, just thunder rolling low and the sharp, metallic slam of something loose near the barn.
Then I hear it.
Glass. Sharp and sudden beneath the storm.
I stop immediately, turning toward the barn.
“What?” Lark asks behind me.
Another crash echoes through the wind. Not loose metal. Not the storm. Something deliberate.
My stomach tightens.
“Stay behind me.”
This time, she doesn’t argue.
We move fast across the yard, boots slipping through mud as rain lashes sideways hard enough to sting. Rook barks again—sharp, frantic—and the sound pulls us harder toward the small barn we’ve been storing some of Lark’s restoration pieces in.
The door slams against the frame as we reach it, swinging unevenly in the wind. The overhead light inside flickers. And then I see it. Wood splintered across the floor. Shattered glass.
One of the antique sconces Lark spent late nights restoring lies broken near the center aisle, pieces scattered through muddy footprints.
My pulse spikes instantly.
