Chapter 181: 181 Ashes and Resolve

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181: Ashes and Resolve 181: Ashes and Resolve The Molotov cocktail shattered against Eldergrove’s lawn, flames erupting in a whoosh of heat and light, the air thick with the acrid smell of burning grass and gasoline.

Mishka’s breath caught, her knife trembling in her hand as she pulled Milla behind the kitchen counter.

The estate’s high walls cast long shadows in the fire’s glow, but Liam’s silhouette—bail-jumping menace, crowbar in one hand, another bottle in the other—charged closer, his laugh cutting through the night.

“You’ll burn for Jean!” he roared, the new accomplice beside him, a wiry man with a scarred face, hurling a second bottle that exploded against the front porch, flames licking the door.

“Milla, stay down!” Mishka shouted, her voice steady despite the fear clawing at her chest.

Milla whimpered, clutching her arm, script pages scattered across the floor like fallen leaves.

Bruce’s security team surged from the shadows, their flashlights slicing through the smoke, shouts echoing: “Drop it!

On the ground!”

Sirens wailed closer, red and blue lights flashing through the windows, but Liam didn’t stop.

He lit another bottle, the fuse hissing as he hurled it toward the house.

Mishka’s Siren instincts kicked in—a raw, defiant shout that cut through the chaos: “Stop!” The bottle arced short, shattering on the driveway, flames spreading but missing the structure.

Liam staggered, his eyes widening as if her voice had hit like a physical force, but he recovered, swinging his crowbar at a guard who tackled him from the side.

The scarred accomplice lunged, knife glinting, but two guards piled on him, zip-tying his wrists as he cursed.

“Get off me!” he snarled, but the police cruisers screeched to a halt at the gate, officers flooding the yard with guns drawn.

“Hands up!

Drop your weapons!”

Liam twisted free for a moment, grabbing his bag and pulling out a canister—smoke bomb or worse—its fuse sparking.

“This is for Jean!” he yelled, tossing it toward the house.

Mishka dove, shielding Milla, the canister rolling under the porch, hissing smoke that billowed thick and black.

Coughs wracked her, tears streaming, but her voice surged again—a clear, commanding note: “Enough!”

An officer tackled Liam, pinning him face-down, the canister fizzling out harmlessly in the grass.

The flames on the lawn sputtered under a guard’s fire extinguisher, the night air heavy with soot and relief.

Bruce burst through the front door, his face tense, pistol holstered.

“Mishka!

Milla!

You okay?”

Mishka coughed, pulling Milla up.

“We’re fine,” she gasped, her voice hoarse.

Milla clung to her, tears streaking her face.

“Miss Mishka, you’re a hero,” she whispered, her script pages singed at the edges.

Bruce scanned the room, radio crackling.

“Perimeter’s secure.

Liam and his new guy are in custody.

Police are questioning them—looks like a revenge hit, but no bomb, just smoke and fire starters.”

Mishka nodded, her heart still racing.

“Duncan warned me.

He’s been tracking them.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened.

“Good call.

Rafe’s confession helped—they were Jean’s last loose ends.

Police are raiding their hideout.”

Mishka sank onto the couch, Milla beside her, as officers took their statements.

The estate’s walls, scorched but standing, felt like a testament to her resolve.

Duncan called, his voice ragged with relief: “Mishka, you’re okay?

Cops got Liam.

My PI says his crew’s dismantled—Jean’s family’s being questioned.

It’s over.”

“Thanks, Duncan,” Mishka said, her voice soft but strong.

“Tell your PI he’s earned a raise.”

As the police left, Bruce stayed, checking windows and doors.

“Stay vigilant,” he said.

“Jean’s locked up, but grudges die hard.

My team’s on 24/7.”

Mishka nodded, the adrenaline crash hitting.

Milla brewed tea, her hands shaky but her chatter relentless.

“Miss Mishka, you’re like an action star!

We’re putting that in my movie—a singer who fights off arsonists!”

Mishka laughed, the sound grounding her.

“No action roles, Milla.

I’m sticking to spreadsheets for now.”

The next morning, Mishka’s commute to VoltCore felt like a rebirth.

The office’s hum—keyboards, coffee machine whirs, laughter—wrapped around her, dulling the memory of flames and shouts.

She sank into her desk, the family photo—her mother’s smile, Duncan’s grin—steadying her.

She dove into sensor prototypes, the technical work a haven.

Sarah burst in, ponytail bouncing.

“Mishka, you’re a legend!

Heard about last night—fires, cops, total madness.

You okay?”

Mishka smiled, her scar barely noticeable.

“Yeah, Sarah.

Just glad it’s over.

Coffee later?”

“Deal,” Sarah said, leaning on the desk.

“But seriously, you’re a badass.

And guess who was here at dawn?

Julian Voss, dropping off flowers and another gala invite.

That man’s *obsessed* with your voice.”

Mishka’s cheeks warmed, recalling Julian’s plea at the potluck, his green eyes bright.

“He’s persistent,” she said, laughing.

“Wants me to sing.

I’m not ready.”

Sarah winked.

“Hot billionaire fan.

Those Voss millions could relaunch you.

Plus, he’s got charm for days.

Think about it.”

Mishka shook her head, but Julian’s fascination stirred her—a spark of her Siren heart.

She returned to her files, sensor specs a grounding puzzle, her mind wandering to Eldergrove’s neighbors, their warmth a contrast to last night’s terror.

Milla’s movie nights, Tom’s barbecue flips, Lila’s gadget rants—Julian’s presence tying it all, his encouragement pulling her toward the stage.

At lunch, the break room buzzed.

Tim reenacted his karaoke flop, flailing, while Carl grumbled, “Spare us.” Mishka laughed, biting into a sandwich, the normalcy a balm.

Angus stopped by, his face etched with worry but pride.

“You did good last night, kid.

VoltCore’s your home, but Eldergrove’s secure now.

Voss sent flowers—says his gala needs you.

He’s right.

Your voice is special.”

“I’m thinking about it, Dad,” she said, her smile genuine.

“Just need time.”

The afternoon flew by in meetings.

Mishka and Sarah tested a sensor, their banter light—Sarah teasing about Tim’s admin crush, Mishka laughing hard.

“You’re thriving,” Sarah said, grinning.

“But Julian Voss was outside again, chatting with Angus.

He’s betting on you.”

Mishka’s heart skipped, the gala invite on her desk glinting.

“He’s a fan,” she said, but his words stirred her.

Back at Eldergrove, Milla greeted her with a hug, her script pages neatly stacked.

“Miss Mishka, you’re safe!

Cops gone, house secure—time for a victory party!”

Mishka laughed.

“No parties, Milla.

Just quiet.

But work was good—coworkers, coffee, normal stuff.”

Milla’s eyes sparkled.

“Normal’s boring!

Tom’s producer friend says Julian Voss might fund my movie if you do his gala.

You sing, I direct, we’re golden!”

Mishka smiled, Julian’s charm flashing.

“He’s pushing me to sing.

Maybe he’d back your script.”

Milla clapped.

“Let’s invite him!

Pitch my werewolf flick, get those Voss billions!”

“Soon,” Mishka said, Duncan’s warning lingering.

“Let’s chill.”

Eldergrove’s community kept her grounded.

One evening, Milla hosted a potluck, neighbors crowding the center with casseroles and stories.

Tom shared his sauce recipe, Lila geeked out over VoltCore’s sensors, and Julian appeared, his presence magnetic.

“Mishka, you’re the talk of Eldergrove,” he said, handing her lemonade.

“The gala’s in two weeks.

One song?

For your fans?”

She blushed, his fascination warming her.

“I’m thinking, Julian.

It’s… a lot.”

He nodded, his smile soft.

“No rush.

But you’re more than spreadsheets, Mishka.” He joined Lila’s tech debate, his charm drawing laughs, and Mishka felt a pull—part fear, part longing for the stage.

Another evening, Milla dragged her to trivia, neighbors cheering as Mishka nailed music questions, Julian clapping loudest.

“Told you,” he whispered.

“You’re meant to shine.” She smiled, torn between his encouragement and her need for quiet.

Late that night, Mishka sat in her room, the gala invite glowing under lamplight.

Milla’s humming drifted from downstairs, her script revisions a constant hum of ambition.

But a sharp thud outside snapped her alert—a car door slamming.

Bruce’s radio crackled: “Suspicious vehicle, east gate.

Two figures, one matches Liam’s description.”

Mishka’s heart raced, grabbing her phone.

Duncan’s text flashed: *Liam’s out on bail.

PI saw him near Eldergrove with a new guy—not Rafe.

Knives confirmed, maybe worse.

Police coming.* Bruce’s reply followed: *Gates locked, team’s moving.

Stay inside.*

She ran downstairs, finding Milla frozen, a knife in hand.

“Miss Mishka, again?” Milla whispered, as a metallic scrape sounded—the east gate.

Shouts erupted, Bruce’s team yelling, “Drop your weapons!” A gunshot cracked, glass shattering in the distance, and Liam’s voice roared: “Mishka!

This isn’t over!”

Mishka pulled Milla behind the counter, her Siren voice humming, a defiant spark.

Headlights flashed—police sirens wailed, but too far.

The gate groaned, metal bending, and a Molotov cocktail arced through the air, flames bursting on the lawn, lighting up the night.

Mishka’s breath caught, her knife trembling.

Milla whimpered, clutching her.

“They’re gonna burn us!” Bruce’s team charged the gate, tackling Liam’s accomplice, but Liam hurled another bottle, flames licking the wall.

Sirens screamed closer, but a third figure emerged, a canister in hand, its fuse sparking.

Liam’s laugh cut through: “Jean sends her regards!”

Mishka’s voice surged, a raw shout: “Stop!” The figure hesitated, the canister wobbling, as police lights flooded the yard.

But the fuse sparked brighter, rolling toward the house, and a low boom shook the ground, smoke billowing as Liam’s silhouette vanished into the dark, his voice echoing: “You’ll never be safe!”

The canister exploded in a flash of smoke and fire, the porch igniting, flames spreading fast.

Mishka grabbed Milla, pulling her toward the back door.

“Out, now!” she yelled, her voice cracking with smoke.

Milla coughed, stumbling, but Mishka’s grip was firm, her Siren strength flaring in her command.

Bruce’s team shouted, extinguishers hissing as they battled the fire.

“Mishka, get clear!” Bruce yelled, bursting through the side gate, pistol drawn.

A guard tackled the third figure, zip-tying him, but Liam was gone, melted into the woods.

Police swarmed, hoses unrolling, dousing the flames before they engulfed the house.

Mishka and Milla collapsed on the lawn, coughing, Milla clutching her.

“Miss Mishka, you saved me,” Milla whispered, tears mixing with soot.

Mishka’s voice was hoarse, her eyes stinging.

“We’re okay,” she said, hugging Milla.

The porch smoldered, black scorches marring the wood, but the house stood.

Duncan arrived minutes later, his car screeching to a halt, his Parisian scarf disheveled.

“Mishka!” he shouted, running to her.

“Liam’s in the wind, but police are hunting him.

His new guy’s talking—says Liam’s obsessed, planning more.”

Bruce joined them, his face grim.

“We’ll triple patrols, install more cameras.

Eldergrove’s locked down.”

Mishka nodded, her resolve hardening.

“I won’t run.

This is my life now.”

The police wrapped up, taking statements, the estate’s neighbors gathering at the gate, concerned whispers rippling.

Julian Voss pushed through, his face pale, holding a blanket.

“Mishka, I heard the sirens.

Are you alright?”

She accepted the blanket, his concern warming her.

“Yeah, Julian.

Just… another night.”

He wrapped it around her shoulders, his touch gentle.

“You’re stronger than this.

The gala—sing, Mishka.

Show them you’re unbreakable.”

Milla nodded, clutching her singed script.

“He’s right, Miss Mishka.

You’re a star.”

Mishka’s Siren heart stirred, Julian’s fascination and Milla’s loyalty a spark.

But as the flames died, a shadow moved in the woods—Liam, or his accomplice, vanishing.

Duncan’s phone buzzed, his PI’s voice crackling: “Liam’s not alone.

He’s got a van, heading back.

And he’s armed—heavier than knives.

Get her out!”

The estate’s walls felt fragile, the night air heavy with smoke, as sirens faded and a low engine rumble echoed from the dark, closing in fast.