Page 18 of Wildfire

When they reached the range, he put up the class-in-progress signs—as though that would help. Then he took off his jacket and laid it on one of the tables at the edge of the range. Slowly, he unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled them up.

“Buying time, Professor?” Marco taunted, because he was an impatient child.

Hermes leaned against the table next to Wilder, grinning his irritating grin. “I dunno, I’m okay with the show. You’ve got impressive guns for a nerd, Pratt.”

“You’ve got a big mouth,” Wilder answered, not bothering with a qualifier.

Hermes didn’t even seem slightly offended; he just threw his head back and laughed. And damn it all, it was an attractive laugh. The way the tendons in his neck stretched, his lips wide over gleaming perfect teeth, and that fucking sparkle in his sky-blue eyes. Wilder didn’t know if he wanted to slap him, or shove him down and kiss him.

Possibly both.

But no, what he was planning required forethought and preparation. He could do it, but it wasn’t easy. It would be a little easier since he didn’t intend to kill Hermes, but that also meant he needed to focus on not doing that. Sometimes, with fire, it was too easy to do serious damage without intending to. Fine control—that was what fire practitioners should be proud of, and all too often, weren’t.

Instead of reacting to Hermes, he turned away and walked to the middle of the range. He motioned the students back as far as they could go, and then stretched his arms out to his sides, looking at Hermes in challenge.

The insufferable asshole grinned yet again as he bounced over in front of Wilder. “You want I should stand by the targets? Would it help your concentration?”

Wilder raised an eyebrow. “Really? Like a carnival game? I thought this was supposed to be a test of skills.”

“Oooooh,” Hermes answered, looking over at the students. “Sounds like teach wants a real fight. You sure about that, fireball? Might not be a great idea if I’m supposed to be protecting you.”

Instead of focusing on Hermes, or even on his own words, on whether he said the right, appropriate, acceptable thing, he let his mouth go and focused on what was important: this situation. This ass, who had abandoned him to be harassed by the police on multiple occasions in the last week alone, who had challenged his authority in front of his students, who might have been involved in the murder of two of them.

He focused on his absolute white-hot rage.

“I told you I don’t need a protector. Dean Woods made this choice, not me. But I don’t have a sister to order me around, so you’ll have to tell me how it goes. Is she the only person who gives you work? You seem the type to be unemployable.” The heat gathered in his chest, seething and roiling just under the surface, but he held it back. Not yet. Soon.

Hermes managed to look impressed and irritated at once. His lips pressed together, but turned up at the corners, eyes still sparkling. “Why professor, are you trying to get me angry?”

Wilder smiled back at him. “Just trying to give you a little inspiration. After all, you’re supposed to be protecting me, but here we are fighting.”

“Oh, I’m not really—”

“That hardly seems fair.” Hermes had been planning on simply standing there, of course. Waiting for Wilder to do his cute little trick so he could dodge, the way he had at Hysteria. “After all, if we were in any kind of altercation, you would need to get your knuckles bloody, wouldn’t you? At least land one blow? Or are you incapable of that?”

For a fraction of a second, he thought he’d tipped his hand, pushed too far, and Hermes would refuse. But then he was gone from where he’d been standing.

He didn’t even try to find where the man had gone. Hermes was too fast, too tricky for his own good. He’d go for the instant win. So Wilder let the heat in his core flow outward, a veritable explosion of the fire he’d been holding in.

Dissatisfyingly—or maybe impressively—Hermes wasn’t blown onto his back by the blast. He did stop short of Wilder, however, fist outstretched in Wilder’s direction and eyebrows lifted in surprise.

Wilder was surprised too. Surprised that the man still had eyebrows. At least his fist was covered with blisters. Blisters that went from red and furious, to pink, to unblemished skin in a matter of seconds. So fast Wilder doubted the students had even seen them from their distance.

Hermes did fall back, though, shaking his fist and whistling appreciatively. He blew on his knuckles, and smoke wafted off them, as though he were actually smoldering.

From a distance, the students whispered to each other in hushed tones, and Wilder could imagine what the discussion was about. Who and what Hermes was, and how he’d done that. Wilder had merely defended his honor, after all. He hadn’t accomplished anything impressive; he’d only done what was expected of him.

At least for a man who’d lost a bet, Hermes didn’t seem offended or angry. Everything about Hermes was odd, but the last thing Wilder expected when he beat someone in a fight was that exasperating grin, even more manic than before, and... the sheer lust in the man’s eyes.

“That,” Hermes said, shaking out his fist, breath coming heavy, “was fucking hot, Professor.”

Despite the irritation of the entire situation, Wilder couldn’t help himself. He laughed. Surely in the history of the world, no one had ever been more irritating and obnoxious and... cute. How was Hermes even real?

Bunk Buddies

Wilder Pratt was a fucking firestorm, and it was just about the hottest thing Hermes had ever seen. Literally.

Wilder was smug and self-satisfied through the rest of class. The students who’d wanted to see him toppled over were duly impressed with their professor—not because they thought Hermes was a particularly difficult target, oh no, it was all because Wilder was a complete, certified badass.

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