Page 100 of Controlled Burn
Later, in the dark, she collapsed onto her bunk half-dressed, the overhead light still burning. The mattress creaked beneath her weight. Her muscles ached in that way that made her feel human—but barely.
She lay still.
Letting the day drip off her like smoke.
And then—somewhere down the hall, a floorboard creaked. Too slow. Too deliberate.
She sat up fast, heart hammering.
But when she looked—there was no one there.
Just shadows stretching long and wrong.
She told herself it was nothing.
Still, she locked her phone. Rolled over. Pulled the blanket tight.
She didn’t think of Brooks. Not this time.
But she remembered how he always knew when the cameras were rolling—how he’d quietly reset the battalion chief’s login last week, helped Nina dig up archived footage after that false alarm, and bragged about being “good with systems” because of his IT background before joining the department. The pieces didn’t quite fit. But they were starting to.
She fell asleep with her boots half off. The light still on. And her mind running in circles.
HR. Brooks. Dean. Elijah’s calm voice. Jake’s quiet rage.
The whole station felt like it was holding its breath.
And she? She was already on fire.
Chapter 37
Backdraft
Dean hadn’t been sleeping. Not really.
He drifted above the sheets, waking with a jolt that left sweat cold on his skin and the echo of her name in his ears. Sometimes he sat up in the dark, staring at the crack of light under the bedroom door, pulse thundering, fists clenched—like maybe the night itself would spit her out, bruised and begging, trembling on his lap.
He couldn’t escape her. Talia Cross, sprawled open for him, mouth parted, thighs slick and shaking, voice cracking on a half-spoken “Don’t,” nails scratching down his back while her body clenched around his fingers like she needed him just to stay whole. He’d wake up so hard it hurt, heart pounding, shame thick enough to choke on.
But he never touched himself. Couldn’t. Not after the way she’d looked at him when he left—caught between begging him to stay and daring him never to come back. Like she didn’t know if he was the monster or the cure.
He didn’t belong in her world anymore. He didn’t belong anywhere.
The bruises he’d left on her hips haunted him every time she bent to tie her boots. He saw the way she moved through the firehouse—stiff, silent, eyes down, jaw set like stone. He noticed how the guys were watching her. Jake’s stare lingered a little too long. Ryan went quiet when she passed. Brooks’ lips curled at the edges. And King, the new transfer, observed her with that clinical, steady hunger.
By the third shift since that night, even the crew started to notice he was off. He fumbled glove checks. Snapped at Ryan. Nearly crushed a hose coupling in his grip when Jake made a snide comment about “girls who like it rough.”
McKenna caught his arm on the stairs, voice low as smoke. “Get your shit together, Cap.”
He nodded, swallowed it down, and didn’t answer. The shame burned hot in his throat.
It wasn’t until after lunch that Chief Stark called him into his office. The door closed with a heavy click—a sound that felt like judgment.
“Dean.”
He stood at parade rest. “Sir.”
Stark leaned back in his chair, his stare cold and heavy. “I’m going to give you this once. Clean. Off the record.”
