Chasing the storm

Chapter 42: The Aftermath of Anger

(Sienna's POV)

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The motel was still shaking from the storm.

And from Rowan's anger.

I could hear it—furniture being slammed, glass breaking, his heavy breathing between the crashes.

I stayed rooted where I was, my leg throbbing, my heart still racing from the fight.

Ava crossed her arms. "You need to go."

I blinked at her. "What?"

Oliver leaned against the counter, rubbing the back of his neck. "You snapped at him. Pretty hard, actually."

Mia gave me a pointed look. "And we all know how he gets when he's angry."

I scoffed. "And you want me to fix that?"

Ava sighed. "Sienna, just… go talk to him."

I shook my head. "He doesn't want to talk. He wants to break things."

Oliver raised an eyebrow. "Then at least make sure he doesn't break himself in the process."

I exhaled sharply. "You guys are unbelievable."

Ava smirked. "We know."

Mia nudged my arm gently. "Go."

I groaned, shifting my weight onto my good leg. "Fine. But if he throws something at me, I'm blaming all of you."

Oliver snorted. "Deal."

---

Every step toward the room was hell.

The motel was barely holding together, the floor creaking beneath me, the wind howling through the cracks in the walls.

And my leg?

It felt like someone had set fire to it.

By the time I reached the door, I was gripping the frame just to stay upright.

Inside, something crashed.

Then silence.

I hesitated.

Then—knock, knock.

Nothing.

I swallowed. "Rowan?"

Silence.

I knocked again, firmer this time. "Rowan, open the damn door."

Still nothing.

But I knew he was in there.

I could hear his breathing.

Uneven. Heavy.

Like he was trying too hard to stay calm.

I sighed, leaning against the door. "I'm not leaving."

The doorknob twitched.

Then—slowly—it creaked open.

---

The door cracked open, just enough for me to see inside.

The room was a disaster.

A chair was overturned, the broken remains of a lamp scattered on the floor. One of the dresser drawers had been ripped out and thrown across the bed, its contents spilled everywhere.

And Rowan?

He stood in the middle of it all, his hands braced against the sink, head bowed, shoulders rising and falling with every sharp breath.

The moment he saw me, his jaw clenched.

"Sienna," he muttered. "Leave."

I exhaled. "Not happening."

He turned away, gripping the edge of the sink harder, his knuckles white. "I don't want to do this right now."

"Tough." I pushed the door open wider, ignoring the sharp pain in my leg as I limped inside.

His gaze flickered to my leg. His whole body tensed. "You shouldn't be walking."

"And you shouldn't be throwing things," I shot back. "Yet here we are."

His lips pressed into a thin line. He turned back to the sink, gripping the edge so tightly I thought it might crack.

Silence stretched between us.

The wind howled outside, shaking the walls, rattling the broken window.

I sighed. "Rowan."

Nothing.

I took another step forward. "Rowan, look at me."

Still nothing.

Fine.

I braced myself against the counter and reached for his arm, fingers curling around his wrist.

His whole body went rigid.

Then—slowly—he turned his head.

And when his eyes met mine, I forgot how to breathe.

---

The Fire in His Gaze

He was angry.

Not just at Caleb.

Not just at the storm.

At everything.

His expression was unreadable, but his eyes?

His eyes were burning.

"Sienna," he said again, quieter this time. "Go."

I tightened my grip. "No."

His jaw twitched. "I might not be able to control myself."

I swallowed hard. "Then don't."

Something snapped between us.

The air shifted.

His breath hitched—just slightly—but I caught it.

His free hand twitched at his side, like he wanted to reach for me.

Like he wanted to pull me closer.

I should've let go.

I should've.

But I didn't.

Instead, I took another step forward, closing the space between us.

"I don't care how angry you are," I whispered. "You don't scare me, Rowan."

His fingers curled into fists. "Maybe you should be scared."

I shook my head. "No."

Then, softer—"Never."

For a second, he just stared at me.

And then—

His arm moved.

Not to shove me away.

But to pull me in.

His hand curled around my waist, firm but not rough, like he wasn't sure if he was allowed to touch me but couldn't help himself.

I sucked in a breath.

This was a mistake.

A dangerous, stupid mistake.

And yet—

I didn't pull away.

Neither did he.

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