Page 42 of Crown of Smoke

My fingers hover over the bruise blooming across his ribs. Even unconscious, he radiates heat like a furnace. The urge to curl into that warmth, to let him wrap me in his protective embrace, hits me hard. It isn’t just a physical attraction. I'm falling for him.

I always thought falling in love was a sweet surrender, but that’s not what I feel now. No, my feeling is closer to panic. I can't afford feelings. Not with someone whose life revolves around danger, whose work is mysterious. Is he even from here?

No, I need to stay focused on my career, on breaking this story. But the way he looks at me, like I'm something precious he needs to protect… The possessive edge to his touch that should frighten me but instead makes me feel cherished… I want that.

Flynn shifts in his sleep, his arm reaching for me. Even unconscious, he seeks me out. The gesture makes my heart ache.

I need to get out of here, but I don't move. Instead, I watch him sleep and try to ignore how right it feels to be here beside him.

I sigh, knowing that these warring feelings aren’t new to this moment. The minute I saw that mountain of a man enter the ring and clock Flynn, I knew my feelings for him were more than just friendly. Next to Flynn's lean frame, his opponent looked like a grizzly bear ready to maul its prey, and I was terrified for him.

I tried warning someone, anyone, about how dangerous that fight looked. The referee, if you could call him that, just laughed when I expressed concern about the size difference. "That's what makes it interesting, sweetheart," he'd sneered, looking me up and down like I were some squeamish girl who'd wandered in by mistake.

Even the other spectators brushed me off. "Your boy signed up for it," one woman told me with an eye roll. "Nobody forced him."

"He can handle himself," another man had drawled, clearly amused by my distress. As if Flynn’s being capable somehow made it okay to watch him get beaten half to death.

The frustration burns. I'm used to people dismissing me. It comes with being a female journalist in a male-dominated field. But this was different. This wasn't about my career or my capabilities. This was about Flynn's safety, and no one seemed to care.

The fear I felt helplessly watching him take blow after blow is seared into my bones. The crowd's bloodthirsty cheers made me sick. They wanted violence. Wanted blood. Wanted to see someone break.

I've never understood people's fascination with boxing. The blood, the violence, it all seems so senseless. Flynn is good at it, clearly, but it’s part of his job, his mission. That tells me whatever his job is, he’s used to danger, expected to walk into it even if he could be hurt or killed. Sure, this time, Flynn found the strength to fight and overcome his opponent, but there is no guarantee that next time he’ll stagger out on his own two feet, and I don’t know that I can live like that.

I study him, wondering when this stranger became someone whose pain affects me so deeply. How did I let myself care so much?

I slip out of bed while he sleeps, gathering my scattered clothes. I tug on my shirt, fighting the urge to crawl back into his warmth.

This has gone too far and I can’t let it go further. Yes, I’m being a coward to not face him and tell him this. I’m cruel to leave when he’s hoping to make pancakes in the morning. But I need to get myself together. To focus on my life… my safe, orderly life.

I'm a journalist. My job is to uncover the truth about the Keans, not fall for the mysterious undercover cop investigating them. Getting attached only makes everything more complicated, more risky.

Flynn shifts in his sleep, and I freeze. His face is peaceful despite the bruises. My heart aches at the sight. I want to trace the line of his jaw, kiss each mark left by tonight's fight. The urge is so strong it scares me.

I grab my purse, moving silently toward the door. I tell myself it's better this way. Safer. But even as I slip out into the night, I know I'm lying to myself. Distance won't stop me from caring, won't erase the way my pulse races when he looks at me or how safe I feel in his arms.

My uber arrives, and I slide into the backseat, forcing myself not to look back at his window. The further we drive, I expect my resolve to grow and common sense to return, but it all crumbles until I’m nearly telling the driver to take me back.

No. Distance is safer. Distance is smarter. I repeat it like a mantra even if my heart is saying something completely different.

I press my forehead against the cool window, watching Boston blur past. The Keans could kill me for asking the wrong questions. Flynn’s investigation could blow up in both our faces. There are a dozen ways this could end badly.

Somehow, losing my heart to him feels like the biggest danger of all.

16

FLINT

Istare at my phone, thumb hovering over Lucy's name. Three days since she left my bed, and I can't get her out of my head. The bruises from the fight have faded to ugly yellows and browns, but the memory of her touch, of the pleasure she brought, lingers stronger than the pain.

"Focus," I mutter, tossing the phone aside. I’m wasting an inordinate amount of time thinking about her. Wondering why she left in the middle of the night. Telling myself it was best that she had because this thing between us is going to blow up in my face anyway.

I give my head a shake in yet another attempt to rid her from it. I turn my attention to my job. The wall of evidence we've gathered on the Keans stares back at me, photos, newspaper clippings, notes scrawled in my messy handwriting. Ten years of planning, of waiting, of carefully orchestrating our revenge.

My brothers and I swore we'd make the Keans pay for what they did to our parents. That fire took everything from us—our family, our home, our legacy. But when Lucy curls against me, laughing at my terrible jokes or furrowing her brow as she connects pieces of her investigation, the burning need for vengeance dims.

I catch myself smiling at random moments, remembering how she tastes, how she feels beneath my hands. The way she challenges me, refuses to back down even when I growl at her to stay safe. That fierce determination should annoy me. Instead, it draws me in deeper.

The mission demands cold calculation, not this warmth spreading through me. I've never let anyone close enough to matter. Caring about Lucy puts her at risk, puts everything we've worked for at risk.

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