Page 44 of Rescuing Ember

Aria lets out a small laugh, then winces, her hand going to her temple. “God, my head is killing me. Do you think they have any aspirin in this place?”

“I’ll check.” I’m grateful for the excuse to move, to do something other than sit and marinate in memories I’d rather forget. The weight of her gratitude, her respect, is almost too much to bear. I’m more comfortable with scorn and being overlooked.

This is new territory for me.

As I head to the kitchen, I can’t help but wonder how this unlikely connection with Aria will play out. We’re from different worlds, but trauma has a way of erasing boundaries. For better or worse, we’re in this together.

As I rummage through cabinets in the adjoining kitchen, I spot a small medicine cabinet. Inside, there’s a bottle of aspirin, but as I reach for it, a flash of memory assaults me—a tattoo, stark black against pale skin. A serpent coiled around a dagger, its forked tongue tasting a drop of blood at the blade’s tip. I saw it on Bruiser, who took particular pleasure in my fear.

The bottle of aspirin slips from my suddenly numb fingers, clattering to the floor. Pills scatter across the tile like tiny white marbles.

“Ember?” Blaze’s voice seems to come from far away. “Are you okay? Can I help you with something?”

I turn, and the sight of Blaze without his tactical gear and helmet hits me like a physical blow.

He’s—magnificent.

My breath catches in my throat, and for a moment, I’m frozen, struggling to reconcile the man in front of me with the one I’ve been fighting beside.

He’s tall, easily over six feet, with a muscular build that speaks of years of intense training. His presence fills the smallkitchen, commanding and undeniably alpha, but it’s his face that truly captures my attention.

Keen eyes, a striking hazel brown that reminds me of embers in a dying fire, seem to see right through me. His hair is lazily unkempt, but in that perfectly disordered way that takes more effort than he’d likely admit. A strong jaw, currently sporting a day’s worth of stubble, completes the picture of rugged attractiveness.

He’s easily a ten, the kind of man who probably has a different woman every night. Women who throw themselves at him, and why wouldn’t they? He’s gorgeous, powerful, and clearly a chick magnet.

And then there’s me.

Dirty, in clothes that haven’t seen the inside of a washing machine in months—if ever. I’m so far beyond anything he’d consider attractive, it’s laughable. If he’s a ten, I’m a negative one, a street rat with delusions of adequacy.

I blink, forcing myself back to the present and away from my self-deprecating thoughts.

“I’m good,” I lie, bending to scoop up the spilled pills. “Just clumsy.”

As I gather the aspirin, I’m acutely aware of Blaze’s presence, of the gulf between us. A man like him and a girl like me? It’s a fairy tale, and I learned long ago that those don’t exist in my world.

The need to escape, to be anywhere but here, suddenly overwhelms me. I scramble to my feet, pills clutched in my hand, and make a beeline for the door, but before I can take more than two steps, a strong arm wraps around my waist, halting me in my tracks.

“Whoa, where’s the fire?” Blaze’s voice rumbles close to my ear, sending involuntary shivers down my spine.

I’m hyperaware of his body pressed against mine, of the solid wall of muscle at my back. His scent envelops me—an intoxicating mix of sandalwood, gun oil, and something uniquely male. It’s overwhelming, making my head spin.

“Let go.” I try to push him away, but it’s like trying to move a mountain.

He doesn’t budge.

“Stop running,” he commands, his voice low and intense. The possessiveness in his tone both thrills and terrifies me.

I twist in his grip, attempting to break free, but somehow, the movement only brings us closer. We spin, and suddenly, my back is against the wall. Blaze looms over me. His arms cage me in, and his face is mere inches from mine.

His lips are impossibly close.

Those ember eyes bore into me, filled with an emotion I can’t—won’t—name. It makes my heart race with equal parts fear and want.

His voice flows, wrapping around me, soft yet commanding, the kind of tone that demands attention without needing to compel it. It’s undeniable, almost hypnotic, pulling me in even when I want to push away.

There’s something exotic about the way he speaks—like warmth and danger all in one, leaving me caught between wanting to run and needing to stay.

“Stop running,” Blaze repeats, softer this time but still in control. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”

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