Page 9 of The Ashes of Summer

Her.

Everything else falls away.

Summer steps into view, and the world narrows until there's nothing left but her. Her auburn hair catches the light, soft curls spilling over her shoulders beneath a veil that trails behind her like smoke. The dress clings to her, fitted in a way that makes something dark rise instantly in my chest.

Too much.

Too fucking much of her skin on display. Possession hits hard enough to unbalance me.

Mine.

The word lands without thought. Immediate. Absolute. The same word that has lived in my chest since the first time I saw her across her father's yard—18 years old, laughing and completely unaware of what she'd already done to me. I have never found a way to remove it. Never tried. It isn't a choice I made. It's a fact I woke up to and have been organizing my life around ever since.

I want to tear the dress from her. Strip it away until there's nothing left for anyone else to see. Until this room, these people, this entire false reality has nothing of her that isn't mine.

Because she is. She always has been.

She walks toward me, slow and steady, every movement too controlled. Her smile is bright—too bright—and it cuts deeper than anything else in this room.

Love hits first. Then grief. Then something darker coils tight beneath both.

When she reaches me, she lifts her face. Her eyes meet mine and something inside me gives. Pressure builds behind my eyes, rising too fast, too much, like something inside my skull is forcing its way through. It sharpens until she's the only thing I can see.

"I love you," she whispers. Her voice is soft. Fragile. Real enough to ruin me.

I don't hesitate, I grab her hand and pull her into me, holding her too tightly—like if I loosen my grip even slightly, she'll slip through me and disappear all over again.

"God, I love you, Summer," I breathe, the words tearing free, raw and unfiltered. "I fucking love you."

I mean it. I will always mean it.

We turn toward the pastor together—but something is wrong.

It starts at the back of my neck. A prickle. A warning that spreads lower, deeper—something my body understands before my mind does. The pastor stands before us, hands folded neatly. Still. But he has no face. Just a blur where features should be.

My grip tightens instinctively. The air shifts.

Something dark coils low as the faceless thing lifts one hand, crooks a finger, and beckons her forward.

No.

I pull her closer, anchoring her to me with everything I have. But she slips free effortlessly, like I was never holding her at all. Panic slams into me.

"Summer—" Nothing comes out. The sound is trapped somewhere deep in my chest, buried beneath terror and something worse.

She walks toward him without hesitation, untouched by any of it. The skin of the pastor's face begins to move. Rippling. Shifting. Like something underneath is forcing its way out. The blur sharpens. Forms.

Jackson Moore.

He smiles. That same look burned into my memory—the one that says he's already won. That I was too late. That I always will be.

Rage detonates. I try to move, but I can't. My feet are locked in place, like the floor has swallowed me whole. I'm trapped beneath the arch, forced to watch while everything around me stays soft. Beautiful. Untouched.

Jackson turns to her with quiet patience. His hand lifts, wraps around her throat, his thumb pressing beneath her jaw in a way that makes something savage tear loose inside me. Then she leans in, and kisses him.

"No!" The word comes out this time. It changes nothing. "Summer!"

She pulls herself away. Turns her head. Looks at me. Her smile is soft. Awry.