Page 44 of Flashover

He snarls and flicks the switch. A soft chirp reverberates faintly, sharp and unmistakably artificial. It’s the kind of sound you only hear once if you get it wrong. The kind that tells you there’s no more time for negotiation. My stomach twists as the countdown begins—silent and merciless, each second ticking forward, a fuse tightening around our throats.

The countdown has started.

I scan the rigged bricks. No time to trace every wire. No time to guess. My eyes lock on the receiver—small, exposed, and maybe fragile enough to sabotage.

I sprint to the control panel and grab the closest shard of metal from a splintered cot frame. My fingers tremble as I wedge it under the antenna base and torque upward until it gives with a sharp snap. Sparks flicker—then die. The signal light goes dark.

Dead circuit. No detonation. The signal sputters. Pops. Dies.

Greer lunges with a shout of rage, but in the heartbeat before impact, a flicker of motion above catches my eye—a streak of heat, too bright to be natural, plunging from the rafters in a blaze of flame-shot momentum. My skin prickles. My lungs seize.

Then the roof erupts—a white-gold plume tearing down through the smoke, fury incarnate wrapped in thunder.

Kade drops through the inferno, a force made flesh. The fire howls around him but doesn’t touch me—not even a scorch. Just a ripple of warmth across my cheeks, as if the flames recognize me and choose to let me stand. No pain. No burn. Only awe—and the fierce, unshakable truth that he’s my mate, and he’s come for me.

He lands hard, human, bare-chested, knees bent in a fighter’s crouch. Flames peel away from him in slow ribbons of heat, trailing sparks that vanish before reaching the ground. Smokeclings to his skin but never harms it, curling and fading as though in deference. Every muscle is coiled, tension carved into every line of his body. Heat radiates from him in waves, unmistakable, primal—and for one breathless moment, I swear the fire bends to him… then dies.

He moves faster than I’ve ever seen him. His face is carved from focus—jaw locked, eyes flaring with barely checked rage. Every step is precision, every movement a weapon honed to the edge. Cold fury rides under his skin, leashed but lethal, and Greer doesn't stand a chance.

One arm locks around Greer’s throat, the move so fast it looks like Kade stepped out of smoke and into the kill zone without missing a beat. The other hand snatches the remote, wrenching it from Greer’s grip with a twist that makes him yelp.

In a blink, Kade pivots—slamming Greer face-first into the wall, one arm barred across his shoulders while the other rips a zip tie from his belt. The plastic bites into Greer’s wrists, cinched tight before the bastard can catch a full breath. He gurgles a curse, struggling against the restraint, but it’s done. Over. The feral edge in Kade’s eyes says he could’ve ended this a hundred ways—and chose mercy out of discipline, not necessity.

I stagger once—only once—and Kade’s already by me. Hands on my arms. Steady. “You okay?”

“No,” I breathe, “but I’m alive.”

He doesn’t kiss me.

But my body leans, just slightly, before I can stop it. My breath hitches, traitorous. The need hums in my veins, sharp and sudden—because some part of me wants the kiss. Wants the anchor. Wants him. And the worst part? I know he felt it too.

He looks at me like he might.

Then the shelter hisses. A final click. A fuse line sparks behind the cot—only to fizzle halfway, coughing smoke instead of fire. Greer’s face splits into a maniacal grin anyway.

“Dead man’s switch,” he says. “Guess I forgot to mention that part.”

Of course he did.

Kade doesn’t wait. He grabs me by the waist and launches us toward the seam in the wall—the same one blasted open when he came through the roof in a cascade of fire and smoke. We hit the dirt and roll once, twice, before he tucks me under him just as—BOOM.

The explosion rocks the shelter, but it’s partial—more pressure wave than full detonation. Fire rips through the upper structure in a bloom of gold and black, but the blast radius doesn't reach the perimeter. Heat lashes across my cheek. Smoke rolls over us in waves. Inside, Greer screams—injured, not dead. Alive, and now ours to take.

Fifteen minutes later, the ridge is crawling with Prescott fire engines and firefighters in full gear stomping out the last of the flames. My ears are still ringing, a dull pressure building behind my eardrums—a warning that hasn’t finished delivering its message. The smoke clings to my skin, thick and oily, the kind that burrows deep into pores and memories. My throat burns with the grit of smoke and the sharp tang of fear I refuse to name. Heat from the blast still radiates off the rocks, bleeding into my boots, making every step feel like walking across scorched judgment. Someone calls for water, someone else for triage, but it all sounds underwater. Muted. Like I’ve stepped through a veil and left something behind in the fire.

I stand over Danny Greer as he writhes in restraints beside the charred shell of his fire shelter. His skin is streaked with soot and sweat, wrists raw where the zip ties bite into them. Thereek of singed plastic and ash hangs heavy in the air. My gear’s scorched, the reflective tape on my sleeves peeling in melted curls. Every breath burns. My pulse hasn’t steadied, still chasing the aftermath like it’s waiting for another blow to land. But my hand doesn’t shake when I click the radio. My voice is steel.

“Command, this is Monroe. Primary saboteur secured. Fire contained.”

Kade stands a few feet back, arms crossed, silent and watchful as always.

“Copy, Monroe. HRT inbound for transfer. Sit tight.”

I squat beside Greer. His eyes are bloodshot. Fury and fear war behind them.

“You did all this,” I say quietly, “to make me pay.”

And looking at him now—gaunt, snarling, hollowed out by his own bitterness—I realize how little I feel. No anger. No satisfaction. Just the cold, unshakable clarity that he was never strong enough to stand in the heat. And I was.

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