Page 22 of Ignition Rites

I stand alone in the chapel afterward, the mask still resting on the altar, and I think about how close I came to telling him everything, how relieved I am that I didn’t, and how neither feeling cancels the other.

When I finally leave, I don’t go to bed either.

In the hallway, the house holds its usual breath, every closed door making the silence feel deliberate. I stand outside her room longer than any version of restraint would recommend, listening to nothing and refusing to move.

I don’t knock tonight, but I don’t leave right away either.

Chapter nine

Throttle

Lorelei

Rafe’s bike is louder than anything that bright orange has a right to be, and looking at it for too long feels like a personal attack.

“It’s small, it’s loud, and it’s blinding me,” I tell him.

“She’s not small,” he says. “She’s a 2026 Suzuki GSX-8R street bike, and you just insulted her personality. Put some respect on her name.”

“Motorcycles don’t have personalities.”

“This one bit a guy in Reno. Ask around.”

We’re in the far corner of the estate’s east lot, past the garages, where the pavement gives way to a stretch of cracked service road nobody bothers watching. Late afternoon light turns everything gold and a little unreal, the way this whole family makes even ordinary things look staged.

Rafe’s in a faded T-shirt with a rip at the collar, sleeves shoved up, and he’s got that energy he gets when he’s decided something is going to be fun whether or not anyone else agrees.

“Absolutely not,” I say when he holds the helmet out to me.

“You said you wanted to learn.”

“I said that to be polite.”

“Nobody’s ever accused you of being polite.” He grins, unbothered. “Fine. Watch first.”

He swings his leg over, settles into the bike like it’s an extension of his own spine, and something in his whole body changes — looser, faster, more himself than he is anywhere inside that house. He doesn’t rev it dramatically. Just eases it forward, slow, showing me the mechanics of it, narrating without making it a lecture.

“Clutch, throttle, brake. In that order, in your head, every single time, until it’s not a thought anymore.” He circles back, stops in front of me, and cuts the engine so I can actually hear him. “It’s not about muscle. It’s about not overthinking it. You’re a world-class overthinker.”

“You’ve known me for two years.”

“And I’m still learning fast.” He holds the helmet out again. “Put this on.”

“I liked you better when you were pretending I had a choice.”

“You do have a choice. Wear the helmet or don’t get on my bike.”

“Dictator.”

“Alive dictator.”

I take it from him, and the strap catches under my hair, and after watching me fight with it for a few seconds, Rafe reaches over. “Hold still.”

“I know how helmets work.”

“Clearly.”

His fingers brush beneath my chin while he fixes the strap, casual enough that he probably doesn’t notice how my body reacts, even if I do.