Page 149 of Her Wolf

She’s got the fire

Kane was on his hands and knees, urgently hunting for a way out, but it was impossible to see anything inside the inferno the living room had become. There was a draft, air shifting around him as if it had found an exit and couldn’t leave fast enough.

So he followed it, forcing arms and legs that felt too tight.

If his fingers hadn’t brushed over human hair, hadn’t tangled in those locks, he would have moved right past Lars without ever knowing the man was there.

Which made him realize he had to drag him out.

Why else would he have stumbled on him?

Kane caught hold of a collar. It tore at first, the fabric weakened significantly how it had been scorched, but he renewed his grip, twisted, and dragged that heavy body out with him.

No one deserved to be consumed in a fire of Zachary’s making.

Not like this.

He’d make sure the tall man would have a decent burial. Christian like, under a tree or some shit.

Something whimpered nearby. For a moment, a horrible, gut twisting moment, he thought it was Eleodora.

He lost his grip on Lars, falling forward and yelling out in pain as his tender skin scraped on the hot floor boards.

Why did he feel torn in two? One half of him wanted to grab her and pull her out with Lars, knowing it was impossible but willing to try. The other laughed as it screamed for her to die in the fire along with Zachary. That the death of two capos was always, always, better than one.

But reason interrupted that frantic train of thought.

Not human. Canine. It was the dog whimpering, not Eleodora.

Kane reached out a hand. If he encountered the animal in that single stretch, he’d bring it with him, because he was meant to.

But if he touched nothing but air…

His fingers brushed jagged fur. Moist, weeping wounds. A collar.

He slid his fingers under that strip of leather and pulled.

A yelp of pain shot through the air, followed by more whimpering.

Yeah, you and everyone else, you mutt.

Kane gritted his teeth, tasting blood and ash in his mouth as he strained forward on his knees.

Heavy billows of smoke obscured the hallway. They barelled past him, drawn to the open front door by a draft that might have come from the back of the fireplace; if the blast had been significant enough—and fuck, it had definitely felt significant to him—then it might have blown out the back wall.

Which might have been what saved him.

Because, if they had built this beach house with concrete or brick walls instead of wood, it would have contained that blast much better.

He’d have been a pulp.

The dog but a smear on the carpet.

Blood and ash painted the walls a reddish black.

Ahead, something appeared from the smoke like a demon.

Finn — clothes blackened, hair singed, open wounds on his arms. A shape dangled over one broad shoulder.

---