Page 52 of Fated to the Lone Shifter
The ceiling shudders, raining dust and sparks.
A high-pitched creak slices the air—then the beam drops with a shriek of warped metal and splintered wood. It’s coming down fast and heavy, right over Taylor’s head.
“Move!” I roar, barreling forward.
He freezes, wide-eyed and off balance, tangled in the hose line. I dive, grabbing the strap on his turnout coat and yanking him back with all I’ve got. We hit the floor just as the beam slams into the space he was standing, exploding into a mess of flame and debris.
The impact knocks the wind out of me. My shoulder screams in protest, but I drag Taylor to his feet anyway.
“You good?” I bark.
He nods, coughing, sweat streaking through soot.
“Go! Get out!” I shove him toward the exit as more creaks echo overhead.
The structure’s minutes from collapse now. I catch sight of Jamie herding a few stragglers out, bless her, and I stay low, heart pounding, adrenaline spiking.
It looks like it’s clear for the time being—But I can’t shake the feeling this fire is just another message.
By the time I glance back, the tree line is empty.
I’ll investigate later. Right now, I’ve got responsibilities—and one very disturbing feeling curling in my gut. Despite us being in town, within sight, this fire didn’t start on its own.
And that means the arsonist (arsonists) are getting more brazen.
The fire is finally out. Steam rises from the charred remains of the motel like ghosts trying to escape. I yank off my helmet, sweat pouring down my temples, breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps. The smell of scorched drywall clings to everything.
As the trucks start packing up, I make my way across the rubble, eyes scanning the debris with a practiced hunter’s focus. I’m not just looking for flare-ups. I’m looking for something more—something off...evidence.
There. Tucked under a collapsed beam near the stairwell, blackened and half-buried in soot, is what I came for.
The parking lot video camera.
I crouch, wrap it in a clean cloth, and slide it into my jacket pocket. My fingers itch, remembering the last time I watched video footage. The wolf. The strike. The unnatural precision of it all. It didn’t just happen. It was intentional.
Behind me, footsteps crunch over glass and ash. I don’t need to turn. I can feel her.
Sera.
Her presence is like a flicker of warmth in a frozen cave. She falls in step beside me, just close enough that I can smell her skin through the smoke. She doesn’t say anything at first, just surveys the wreckage with tired eyes.
Then, voice low but steady, she says, “We could pool our resources.” Her eyes search mine, not just for agreement but for trust, for something more than this truce we’re dancing around.
I glance at her. She’s serious. Her face is grim but open. It’s a good first step.
I nod once. “Yeah. I could use the help.”
Her hand moves toward her jacket. For a second, I think she might reach for mine, but instead she pulls out a crumpled evidence bag and passes it to me without fanfare.
“Do you want to turn it in,” she asks, “or should I?”
I take it from her slowly, deliberately. “I’ll handle it.”
She just nods.
But inside, my instincts are howling.
Too close, too close, too close.
