Page 20 of Burned By My Mate

“Yeah.”

I need tostop staring.

I tear my gaze away and move toward the coffee pot, pretending that my faceisn’tburning. I take a long sip of coffee so I don’t have to try to think of something to say.

I amnotgoing to let Logan West get under my skin. Even if he’s built like adamn Greek god.

I clear my throat.

“So. What’s the plan for today?”

Logan’s expression shifts slightly, somethingseriousflickering behind his eyes.

“I need to check in with my team,” he says. “And I want to swing by your house. See if we missed anything.”

A lump forms in my throat.My house. Or what’s left of it.

I nod slowly, pushing past the ache in my chest.

“Okay.”

Logan watches me for a moment like he’s trying toread me, but then he turns back to the stove. “You don’t have to come with me,” he says gently, but I shake my head.

“I want to see it. I need to.”

His lips flatten, but he doesn’t argue with me.

Eat first.”

I roll my eyes at his bossiness but do as he orders. He sits next to me, and we eat in silence. The tension in the air is palpable, and I can’t tell if it’s because we’re both worried about the people from Red Fog or about what my reaction might be when we see the remains of my house.

“I’ll clean up. You go get dressed,” I tell him, and he nods and heads down the hallway to his room.

I rinse and load the dishwasher, then wipe down the counters.

“Ready?” He asks, and I nod.

We head out to his Jeep, and he opens the door for me. I can see him looking around, scanning our surroundings for any sign of a threat as he climbs behind the wheel. We take off, and fifteen minutes later, we pull up to my house, and my breath stalls as we pull into the driveway.

I wasn’t prepared for this.

Standing in front of what’s left of my house is like gettingpunched in the gut.

Half of the structure ischarred, the roof half-collapsed, and the windows shattered.Everything I owned is gone.

I swallow hard, my chesttightening. Logan stands beside me, silent. He doesn’t try to say anythingstupid—no empty reassurances, no pointless clichés, and somehow, that makes it easier.

I take a slow breath. “I need to see if anything survived.”

Logan nods. “I’ll go with you.”

I should argue. Tell him I can handle it on my own. But I don’t, because the truth is, Idon’t want to do this alone. So I nod, and together, we step inside.

The inside of the house isworse than I expected. Everything is covered inash and debris, the air still thick with the scent of smoke. I pick my way carefully through the wreckage, my boots crunching against thescorched remainsof what used to be my home.

I stop when I see the remains of myart room. There are splatters of paint, half blackened, mixed between melted paintbrushes and canvases.

I bite my lip, willing myself to keep it together, but it’shard.

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