Page 6 of Playing with Fire

Right. We weren't the only ones who lived here. Other trailers meant other targets. Other friends at risk. The thought steadied me enough to start functioning again, to push aside the shock and grief that threatened to swallow me whole. I'd lost everything once before, walked away from my family home with nothing but a duffel bag and the burning shame of not being what they wanted. I could survive this, too.

But all I could do was stand there, trembling, watching my life burn while waiting for Xavier to arrive. Because right now, despite being surrounded by some of the most dangerous mercenaries in Ohio, the only person I really wanted to see was the one who spoke fire's language.

The one who would understand exactly what this meant.

The one who would find whoever had burned my home to the ground and help me make them pay.

ThemessagefromLeohit me like a bullet between the ribs. Someone had tried to burn him alive. Someone had dared to target the one person I couldn't bear to lose. My fingers tightened around my phone until the case creaked, rage flooding my system with beautiful clarity. The world around me sharpened to crystal focus, colors more vibrant, sounds more distinct. Rage didn't cloud my judgment like it did for normal people. It refined it, distilled everything down to pure, perfect purpose.

I took the funeral home stairs three at a time, my steel-toed boots echoing through the empty hallways. Each step sent a delicious thrill of anticipation through my veins. Someone was about to learn the cost of touching what was mine. The fall air slapped cold against my face as I burst out the back door, but I barely felt it through the familiar surge of adrenaline and possession burning through my veins.

My bike waited in the shadows like a patient predator, all sleek black lines and cutting-edge tech. I'd modified the Kawasaki Ninja ZX10R myself, stripping away everything that didn't serve a purpose and upgrading what remained until it purred like a demon under my hands. It responded to my touch like an extension of my body, the way all my tools did. The leather of my fingerless gloves creaked as I gripped the handles, throwing my leg over the seat in one practiced motion. My jacket, worn leather decorated with band patches and strategically placed knife sheaths, settled around me like armor.

I kicked the stand down and wheeled the bike from its spot behind the family home, throwing a glance at the funeral parlor next door. The light in the office was still on, which meant Dad was working late. He’d thrown himself into his work a lot of late, ever since Uncle Sacha died.

The engine's growl matched the fury in my blood as I tore out of the parking lot, taking the first turn so low my knee almost scraped the pavement. I could feel myself slipping into that other space, the hunting mindset where everything unnecessary fell away. Past the town limits, the world dissolved into a symphony of darkness and scattered light. Empty cornfields stretched into shadow on either side, dead stalks rattling like bones in the wind. The harvest moon hung bloated and orange through gaps in the autumn clouds, painting everything in the same color as my favorite accelerants.

The digital display glowed red in the darkness, numbers climbing as I pushed the bike harder. Eighty. Ninety. One hundred. The wind tried to rip my hood back, but the strings held, the fabric snapping around my face like a second skin. Ancient oaks and maples blurred past, their branches reaching across the road like gnarled fingers trying to snatch me from the sky. The air grew thick with the scent of decaying leaves and freshly spread manure from the dairy farms, life and death cycling eternal in the forgotten corners of Southeast Ohio.

A suicidal deer bounded across the road, close enough for me to see the terror in its eyes as I swerved. The movement was pure instinct, my body and bike moving as one through the maze of rural curves I'd memorized. Through gaps in the trees, abandoned barns slumped in their fields like forgotten headstones, their weathered wood begging for the kiss of flame. I imagined how they would look transformed by fire, timber blackening, paint bubbling, structure returning to fundamental elements. Perfect. Pure. Honest.

The bike screamed around corners as red tinted my vision. Two years I'd spent learning every detail of Leo's life. The way he pushed his glasses up when he was nervous. How his eyes lit up when he talked about new tech. The exact sound of his laugh when I said something particularly twisted. The careful way he handled his electronics, like each circuit board was precious. He was mine to watch. Mine to protect. Mine to possess. Not because I'd decided it on a whim, but because I'd observed, cataloged, and known him more thoroughly than he knew himself. That kind of knowledge was ownership more binding than any legal document. And someone had tried to destroy him.

I could smell the smoke before I saw it, acrid and wrong in a way that made my hands clench tighter on the grips. This wasn't my fire. My fires were precise instruments of justice. This was the kind of fire set by someone who didn't understand its true beauty. Fire wasn't just destruction, it was transformation. It cleansed. It purified. This was just vandalism with heat, an insult to the element I'd spent years studying.

The compound's entrance flew past in a blur. I killed the engine but let momentum carry me through the maze of stacked cars and equipment, gravel spraying as the bike slid to a stop. The orange glow of flames painted everything in hellish light, casting twisted shadows across the familiar landscape of the Junkyard Dogs' territory. It was beautiful in the way natural disasters were beautiful, raw power unleashed without purpose or direction. Wasted potential. If you were going to burn something, it should mean something. It should be a statement, not a tantrum.

Then I saw him, and everything else fell away. Leo stood near the burning wreckage of his home, clutching his laptop bag like it could shield him from the world. His Star Wars shirt was smudged with soot, his dark hair wild from running, glasses slightly askew in that way that always made my chest feel weird. The flames reflected in his lenses, making his eyes look like they held fire. He was alive. He was perfect. He was everything I didn't deserve to want.

My hands clenched into fists as I stalked toward him, taking in every scrape, every smudge of ash, every tremble in his shoulders. Each mark etched itself into my memory, a ledger of debts I would collect with interest. Whoever had done this would suffer exquisitely.

I just had to figure out how to do all that without him realizing exactly how much I needed him to keep breathing. How much I needed him to keep looking at me like I was his hero instead of his nightmare. The difference between stalking and surveillance was permission, and Leo had never given his. But that hadn't stopped me from installing monitoring software on his devices, from tracking his movements, from learning his routines. Not out of some twisted sexual desire, but from a deeper need to know he was safe.

But first, I had some hunting to do. And this time, I was going to take my time with the kill.

The compound churned with activity, mercenaries moving through the firelight like shadows in a fever dream. Someone had dragged out industrial fire extinguishers, their white spray cutting through the flames in useless bursts. The fire had already claimed too much territory, marking its victory in the way Leo's trailer groaned and buckled. The heat pressed against my face like an eager pet, begging for attention, but for once I didn't want to watch it dance.

"Xavier." Leo's voice cracked on my name, and something in my chest cracked with it. He took a step toward me, then stopped, uncertainty written in every line of his body. The flames reflected in his glasses. Some part of me thrilled at that, at seeing him touched by the element I loved, marked by it but not consumed. My head flashed with sudden imagery—Leo's skin painted in firelight, Leo's eyes wide as I showed him how fire could feel against flesh, Leo trembling with a mix of fear and want.

I crossed the distance between us in three strides, my hands moving without permission to grip his shoulders. Under my fingers, his Star Wars shirt was damp with sweat and fear. I could feel him trembling, could smell smoke in his hair, could see a smudge of ash across one cheekbone that made me want to commit murder. It also made me want to lick it away, to taste the fire on his skin.

"Tell me everything," I said, my voice coming out darker than intended. My thumbs moved in small circles against his collarbones, a possessive comfort I couldn't stop myself from offering. "Every detail. Every sound. Every smell. Don't leave anything out."

Leo swayed slightly, leaning into my touch in a way that made the monster in my chest purr. "We were in the kitchen when I smelled smoke, but the detector never went off. Then there was this sound, this whoosh, and suddenly everything was burning." His voice cracked on the last word.

I pulled him closer, telling myself I was checking for injuries. My hands skimmed down his arms, across his chest. Nothing seemed broken. Nothing bleeding. But he was watching me with those huge dark eyes, and I couldn't stop touching him long enough to think straight. Each point of contact felt like electricity, like something essential flowing between us. I knew every inch of him by sight, had spent two years observing and wanting, but touching him still felt forbidden. Sacred, almost.

"The smoke detector." Rage sharpened my focus to a knife's edge. "Someone disabled it. Planned this. Waited until you were both awake to make sure you'd know exactly what was happening." My fingers brushed the hem of his shirt, seeking skin I had no right to touch. "They wanted you to feel the fear."They wanted to watch you suffer, I added silently.Just like I want to watch them suffer when I find them.

A shudder ran through Leo's body, and I pulled him against my chest before I could stop myself. He came willingly, pressing his face into my leather jacket like he belonged there. Like he trusted me. Like he didn't know my hands were stained with enough blood to drown us both.

"I've got you," I whispered into his hair, the words tasting like ash and promises. "No one who hurts you walks away unscathed." The raw intensity in my voice should have frightened him. Should have made him pull away, question what I meant. But Leo just pressed closer, maybe too traumatized to notice the dangerous edge in my tone, or maybe choosing to ignore it. Whatever the reason, I was grateful to feel his heart beating against mine.

Around us, the compound continued its frantic dance of rescue and containment. Boone shouted orders, but all I could focus on was Leo's heartbeat against my chest and the growing certainty that someone had just signed their own death warrant.

The fire reached something electronic in the wreckage, sending sparks cascading into the night sky. Leo flinched, and my arms tightened automatically. He smelled like fear and smoke and everything I wanted to protect. Everything I would burn the world to keep safe.

"My room," he said against my jacket. "All your security systems. The surveillance programs I wrote for you. Everything's gone."

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