All Chapters of A Crown of Ashes: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

Rain smashed into the earth like it wanted to bury the whole damn city, turning the graveyard into a sopping mess of mud and hunched figures clutching black umbrellas. Sienna Calder stood off to the side, her boots sinking into the muck, her old jacket—splattered with paint from a dozen late-night rants—sticking out like a middle finger among the somber suits. She wasn’t here to weep. She’d come to see the bastard in the ground for herself.Dorian Ashford’s coffin sat there, slick and shiny, all polished mahogany that hollered wealth even as it sank toward the dirt. The priest mumbled some nonsense about peace everlasting, his voice half-drowned by the storm, but Sienna didn’t hear a word. Her eyes were glued to that box, her jaw locked tight. Twenty-seven years of bile churned inside her. He’d left her mom to waste away in a rusted trailer, coughing up her last breaths, while he piled up his shipping billions—money built on the wreckage of the only person who’d ever given a damn ab

Sienna crashed to the marble floor, Roman’s hand jerking her down as glass shattered somewhere in the guts of the estate. Her elbow smashed into the stone, a jolt of pain shooting up her arm, but it got lost in the rush tearing through her. Footsteps pounded closer—fast, hard, stomping from the east side of the house. Too many boots, too much purpose. Her breath hitched, the silver key digging into her palm where she gripped it like a lifeline.“Keep your head down,” Roman growled, half-sprawled over her, like she was some fragile thing he had to cover. She shoved him off, hard, scrambling into a crouch, her soaked jacket clinging like a second skin.“I don’t need you playing shield,” she snapped, locking eyes with him. His cool mask was gone—those gray eyes burned dark now, wild and sharp. He didn’t waste breath arguing, just yanked a black pistol from his coat, the barrel catching the chandelier’s glow.“You’re packing?” Her voice jumped, sharp with shock and suspicion. “Who the he

Ezra’s laugh lingered in the dark, sharp and low, creeping down the basement stairs like a chill Sienna couldn’t shake. Her chest heaved, heart banging against her ribs, her hand still buzzing from where she’d held the key—now gone, dropped in the black with that cursed vial. The air down here was heavy, wet, pressing too close, and Roman was right there, his breath rough on her neck, too damn near for comfort.“Don’t move,” he muttered, voice scraped low, his hand brushing her arm as he shifted—a quick graze, rough fingertips catching her skin. It hit her wrong, a flicker of heat she didn’t want, not now, not with him breathing down her neck like that.“Don’t move?” she shot back, sharp and quiet, jerking away from his touch. “He’s practically on us, you idiot.” She squinted into the nothing, eyes burning to see something—anything—but it was all shadow, thick and suffocating. The lights were dead, the cabinet’s guts spilled out, and Ezra’s boots scraped closer, slow and cocky, like h

The radio’s voice hung in the shack like smoke, low and warped—“Bring the vial. Cliff road, now—or he pays.” Sienna’s gut twisted, the vial a cold weight in her hand, her breath catching on the static’s last hiss. Roman stood stiff by the door, gun up, his eyes boring into hers—dark, steady, asking questions she didn’t have answers for. The twig snap outside hit like a slap, sharp and close, and her pulse kicked hard.“Who’s ‘he’?” she said again, voice low, rough, barely holding steady. She stepped toward Roman, the floor creaking under her boots, the air thick with damp and him—too close, too real.“Dunno,” he said, sharp and quiet, his head tilting toward the door. “But they’re here. Move back.” He shifted, putting himself between her and whatever was out there, his shoulder brushing hers—quick, firm, enough to spark a dumb flicker she shoved down fast.“No chance,” she snapped, pocketing the vial and grabbing a rusted poker from the stove. It was heavy, cold, better than nothing.

The shack shook as the door rattled, a hard thud that snapped Sienna’s head up, her heart slamming against her ribs. That warped voice—“He’s bleeding already”—still echoed in her ears, cold and mean, and Roman stood there, gun raised, his eyes locked on her like she was the only thing in the room. The headlights outside cut through the cracked window, painting his face in harsh streaks—jaw tight, stubble dark, too damn steady when everything was spinning. “Get back,” he said, voice low, rough, cutting through the hum of the truck outside. He stepped toward the door, putting himself between her and it, and damn if it didn’t piss her off—how he acted like her shield, how it made her feel something she didn’t want to name. “No way,” she shot back, voice sharp, grabbing the poker again—cold, solid in her grip. “I’m not cowering while they play this out.” Her eyes flicked to his, and there it was—that look, dark and heavy, burning into her, and it hit her hard, low in her gut, a heat sh