Page 101 of Controlled Burn
Dean’s stomach bottomed out.
“Someone came to HR. Said there’s been inappropriate conduct between you and a member of your crew.”
Dean didn’t blink. “Is there a formal complaint?”
“No. But they’re watching. Waiting. One wrong move, and they’ll go official.”
Dean’s jaw ached from the effort of holding himself together.
“You’ve been distracted,” Stark went on. “Off your game. The other captains noticed. So did McKenna.”
“She told you?”
“She didn’t need to. It’s all over the station.”
Dean exhaled through his nose, careful not to let anything show.
“I don’t need to know the details,” Stark said, voice like a warning. “But I do need you to hear me. If HR gets wind of a superior abusing authority—especially with your history—”
“There’s nothing to report,” Dean lied. “Nothing happened.”
Stark’s stare cut into him. “You sure about that?”
“Yes, sir.”
It was a clean lie. Sharp. Practiced. His only shield.
Stark sighed. “Alright. Then I suggest you make damn sure it stays that way.”
Dean left the office with a stomach full of rot and a heart full of broken glass. He should’ve been relieved. But all he could feel was the buzz in his blood. The ache in his knuckles. The phantom press of her skin under his hands.
He shut the door behind him and leaned against the hallway wall, his breath caught somewhere between fury and collapse. That was it. The warning shot. The chance to salvage what was left of his name, his career, his spine. And he couldn’t take it—not really. Because whatever he’d done with Talia, whatever he’d let himself become, it wasn’t just a mistake anymore.
It was in his blood now. In the way he thought, the way he breathed.
He hadn’t just crossed a line. He’d razed the entire map.
He replayed the memory on an endless loop: her legs wrapped around his waist, the hitch of her breath as he drove into her, the way she whispered his name like it hurt to say it. The memory should’ve made him sick. Instead, it only made him harder. Filthier. Like he wanted to climb inside her skin and never leave.
Back in the bay, Talia stood beside the engine, checking the side compartments. Her hair was up. Her turnout pants hungloose on her hips. She moved mechanically, as if her thoughts were elsewhere.
Dean watched her from across the rig. His hands itched to grab her. To remind her of who she belonged to. But he couldn’t—not with everyone watching. Not with his career hanging by a thread.
She turned, saw him, and walked away. Didn’t even blink. Didn’t hesitate. Just… walked like he didn’t exist. Like he hadn’t made her come with her back against the wall and his hand at her throat.
Dean stared after her, breath caught somewhere in the hollow between rage and grief.
Then he saw King. Elijah King, transfer from Station 41. Ex-military, squared jaw, polite smile, clean gear. He stood beside Talia now, asking her something about the ladder configurations. Not in a condescending way. Not the way most guys did with her. No, he was listening. Really listening.
Talia actually smiled. Just a flicker. Soft. Real.
Dean felt something crack in his chest.
Jake saw it too. He was across the bay, leaning against the lockers, arms folded. Watching. His face was unreadable. His eyes black.
The tension between them was a thread pulled tight, thinner by the second.
Dean looked away, heart hammering, blood thick with need and regret. He didn’t know how much longer he could hold himself back. He didn’t know who would snap first—Jake, King, or himself.
