Page 107 of Controlled Burn
They were running hydrant drills in the sun. She was sweating through her T-shirt. Dirt smudged her jaw. Boots sank in mud. Hoseline stiff beneath her gloves. Elijah passed behind her, then beside her—close enough to feel his heat—and murmured, “You’re favoring your left leg.”
She blinked. “What?”
“You were limping a little on that turn.”
Her chest tightened. “Old injury.”
He didn’t press. Just gave her a look—quiet, knowing—the kind that said he saw more than he’d admit. And wouldn’t use it against her. That look was more dangerous than any threat.
She didn’t want to like it. But her body did. Especially when Dean stepped out of the bay and saw them talking, he didn’t interrupt. Just stood there. Arms crossed. Watching. Jaw set like stone.
Later, near the lockers—
“New guy’s real chatty with you,” Dean said, not looking at her.
Talia kept walking. “You don’t get to care.”
He caught her elbow. Not rough. But not soft either. Just… claiming.
“I care,” he said low. “Too fucking much.”
She wrenched away. “Then you should’ve picked a better way to show it.”
She left him standing there, chest heaving. And she hated—truly hated—that her pulse was still racing by the time she reached the turnout room. Not from fury. From want.
God. She was wrecked.
Worse—she couldn’t tell who she wanted more. Dean, with his guilt and rough hands and unspoken hunger. Or Elijah, with his calm patience and steady stare. She wasn’t ready for either.
And yet...
That night in the bunkroom, she lay on her side, one arm curled under her head, breathing slowly—trying to quiet the storm inside.
Soft footsteps moved behind her—someone heading to the shared bathroom. She didn’t move, but her body tensed.
She hadn’t told anyone about Brooks. Not even Dean. Especially not Dean.
Brooks and Jake hadn’t stopped. They’d just changed tactics. Notes. Whispers. A single still from the video—blurred enough to deny, sharp enough to know.
She locked the stall doors now. Slept with a knife under her pillow.
And still, her body responded. Even now, her thighs were clenched. Her skin prickled.
She hated that part of herself. The part that couldn’t untangle fear from arousal. The part that remembered Jake’s grip in her hair. Dean’s voice was sharp and cruel—Elijah’s gaze, slow and unraveling.
She wasn’t safe. Nowhere felt safe. Not even here, in the dim bunkroom with the ceiling fan humming and her crew snoring in soft rhythms.
Especially not here.
Because someone was always watching.
She pressed her thighs together under the thin sheet, shame curdling beneath her ribs. She hated how the danger made her ache—hated that she still wanted to be seen—
And feared who’d see her next.
Maddox
He saw the way she didn’t look at King. And that told him everything.
