Page 104 of Controlled Burn
“You’ll regret this,” Jake said, smoothing his shirt. “One day, when they all know. When King walks away. When Maddox watches the next video.”
She shoved past him, legs barely working, making it to the showers. She locked the door behind her and collapsed against the tile, hot water scalding her skin.
She scrubbed herself raw, lips moving in a desperate mantra. “You’re fine. You’re fine. You’re fine.” But her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
And deep down, she knew the truth. She wasn’t fine. She was unraveling. And someone else now held the thread.
Somewhere down the hall, a floorboard creaked—too slow, too deliberate. But when she looked, there was no one there.
Jake wasn’t the only one observing.
She thought about how Brooks used to help the guys with broken logins, station-wide emails, and even the internal server.
Now he had her image. Her history. Her silence.
And she had no idea how much he’d taken.
Back in the bunkroom, her locker was ajar.
Her backup phone—hidden, powered down, taped beneath the bottom shelf—was gone.
She stared at the empty space like it might rewrite itself.
The only people who knew it existed were Dean. And Brooks.
Her stomach turned. Her hands went cold.
She wasn’t just being watched.
She was being hunted.
Chapter 39
Afterburn
Talia
Two days after Jake cornered her in the turnout room, Talia still couldn’t get the smell off her skin.
The water scalded. She let it. Steam wrapped around her like smoke, curling into her lungs, making her chest tight. Her fingernails scraped over her skin—shoulders, thighs, stomach—desperate to find a layer she hadn’t already scrubbed raw. She needed to peel it all off. Start over.
She crouched, water pounding against her spine. Dropped the soap. Bent to pick it up—and winced at the soreness that bloomed between her legs. Tender. Swollen. Still wet. Still remembering.
Jake’s voice haunted her from the tiles:Say you liked it. Say you begged.
She gritted her teeth, pressing her palm between her legs like pressure could erase the pulse that betrayed her.
It wasn’t the marks on her skin that left her ashamed.
It was the part of her that never cried out. The part that ached for more.
“I’m okay,” she murmured. “I’m okay. I’m okay—”
Her throat closed.
She turned off the water. Didn’t dry off. Just sat on the toilet lid, dripping and shaking, staring at the cracked tile and thinking about the way her hips had rocked forward under his hands. About the flash of heat that still simmered low in her gut.
Shame was a quiet thing. It didn’t scream. It stayed.
