Page 15 of His Greatest Treasure

With a slow exhale, I set my beer down on the floor and maneuver myself into a lying position. It’s half-uncomfortable with my ankles hanging off the armrest, but when my eyes start to droop, I don’t give them or my feelings another thought.

I just sleep.

It’sdark when I wake up. Through blurry eyes, I see that the game is over and a poker match has replaced it. Fumbling for the remote, I find it on my chest. I turn the TV off, not wanting to die of boredom from having to watch poker, and stand.

I wobble for a beat before gaining control of my legs and forcing myself up the stairs. My sleep schedule has grown so messed up over the past couple years, but I’m hoping with my new two on two off shift, I can fix it up a bit.

My bedroom is brighter than the living room, and I grow confused as to what time it actually is when I step inside and stare out the window beside my bed. The sun is still setting and peeking up from the horizon, making it . . . nine, maybe.

I go to pull the blinds down when I freeze, muscles locking up. The pain in my muscles is worse now than hours ago, and as I tense up, it only grows more intense. I stop caring about that in an instant.

Ary always has her blinds closed over the window straight across from mine, probably because she thinks I’m a fucking creep who will stare into it all the time, but tonight, they’re still up. And thank God for that because the tendrils of smoke curling in the air from whatever lies beneath the window have me taking off out of my room.

I storm down the stairs, my focus zeroed in on that smoke as alarms ring in my head. Somehow, I manage to grab my fire extinguisher before leaving. My front door is left open as I hurry across the yard and jump onto her front porch.

“Ary, open the door!” I shout, banging my fist on the wood over and over again. “Ary!”

Footsteps sound on the other side of the door, but I continue hitting it until it swings open. Wide blue eyes meet mine as I shoulder past her and walk inside, not waiting for an invitation.

“Oliver? What are you doing?” she asks, her voice higher-pitched than normal. “It’s not socially acceptable to just storm into other people’s houses!”

“Stay here,” I demand before leaving her behind, taking the stairs two at a time.

My chest pounds, adrenaline already creating a fog over my mind. Years of training keep me focused on the task at hand and nothing else. Get the fire out before it grows, and make sure everyone is safe.

“You can’t go in my room! Oliver!”

“Is Nova here?”

“No, she’s?—”

Her answer good enough for me, I stop listening and inhale, smelling the telltale scent of something burning. It’s not a fire yet, but it will be soon if I don’t get it under control.

“You’re an absolute lunatic!” she shouts behind me, following at a quick pace to keep up with my long strides.

“Did you leave something on in your bedroom? A curling iron or something?” I ask, my voice dangerously low in an attempt to keep from shouting at her.

“What are you talking about?”

I stop, and she nearly runs into my chest when I spin to face her. The fire extinguisher in my hands rests between us, and when she stares at it, I take a second to look at her.

She’s done her makeup and hair tonight, and her tiny body is wrapped in a shimmery fabric that stops above her knees?—

I swallow a growl and leave her there before searching for the room across from mine. Getting distracted is not a part of the plan.

Wanting to avoid speaking to her again, I take a guess that her place has the same layout as mine when I see the same number of doors and head for where my bedroom would be. When I step into the room and see the smoke coming from the towel below a curling iron that’s still plugged into the wall, I drop the extinguisher on the ground.

“Christ, woman,” I snap while tugging the cord from the wall and pulling the curling iron off the towel.

The towel is what’s smoking, so I take it off the vanity and leave the room in search of the bathroom. When I find it, I drop it in the sink and turn the tap to cold, letting it soak the cotton.

Ary is behind me in the doorway when I look over my shoulder. Her face is pale, fingers dancing anxiously at her sides.

“How long have you had this plugged in for and sitting on that towel?” I ask, gripping the handle of the curling iron too hard as I hold it up.

“I don’t know. Not long. I always keep it on that towel, and it’s never smoked like that before,” she rambles.

I blow out a tense breath and tip my head back before looking back at her. “You can’t leave a hot tool on a towel unattended. You shouldn’t even do it attended, but at least you’d know to take it off if you were watching it. If the towel had started on fire?—”

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