Page 12 of The Fire We Crave

Just the memory of them has terrified her.

And for that alone, I want to kill them all.

4

QUINN

The following morning, I slowly open my eyes and stretch beneath the sheet that covers me. My fists hit the headboard, and I push against it as every muscle tenses. I tighten my calves, my ankles, my feet, my toes.

Then, I relax as I let out a whoosh of breath.

Mondays have to be my favorite day of the week, as it’s my day off. I work six days a week because why not when you have nothing much else to do?

But on Mondays, I get to relax, to sleep in, and to?—

“And in other news, the Lakers had a catastrophic night last night. Stay tuned to find out why when?—”

Abruptly, I sit up and then remember I’m at Smoke’s house. And he’s home.

And it’s… I look at my phone … ten in the morning.

And he’s watching sports.

Loudly.

I’m not a huge fan of noise. There’s so much in the bakery all day that I like my days off to be quiet.

But it’s his house and his rules, and who am I to question it?

I could go back to the apartment over the bakery during the day, there would be people downstairs if there were a problem, but that feels cowardly.

Plus, it’s a guaranteed knock from Kinsey, telling me there’s a huge rush and could I spare a few minutes that would turn into two hours. To avoid it, I’ve learned to be out of the apartment before the lunch time rush starts.

The wide wooden floor is cool beneath my feet as I climb out of bed. Even with the air-conditioning running, it’s still warm in the house. Must be that pointed roof and tall-ceiling loft space. There are some ceiling fans in places to help the air circulate, but they aren’t the most efficient.

“Motherfucker,” I hear as I reach my bedroom door. It’s followed by the smash of a plate and the thud of something heavy.

Bones comes hurtling around the corner and whines at my feet. “Hey, buddy. Good morning. What just happened, huh? Go inside while I see.”

I shut him in my room in case there’s broken glass, and hurry around the corner to the kitchen. Smoke stands, shirtless, gripping the edge of the counter in both hands, his shoulders rounded and head down.

On the floor is a shattered plate and the pot of butter.

Carefully, I walk around the shards to protect my bare feet.

Smoke looks ruined.

It’s the first time I’ve seen the extent of his injuries. There are still swathes of bruising and several large dressings taped around his side and half his ribs. It spans up over the back of his shoulder and down his right arm.

I had no idea the burns were so…extensive.

He must be in agony.

And it’s totally inappropriate how I stare for a second longer than I need to, looking at how perfectly chiseled his abs are and how muscular his arms are.

Because he looks desolate.

And I’m sure my sympathy isn’t what he wants.

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