Page 119 of Controlled Burn
“Let’s roll—Engine and Ladder 12 en route. Get eyes on the traffic flow. Kennedy, prep for triage.”
The interstate shimmered in the late morning sun—glass, metal, bodies. Three cars twisted like garbage, andone rolled onto its roof. Smoke curled off a crumpled hood.
Screams. Gasoline. Blood.
Talia’s boots hit the asphalt first, and the command clicked into place like a second skin.
“We’ve got three BLS patients and four ALS patients,” she barked into her radio. “Call for two additional medics. I want a blocking engine and an incident safety officer on the scene. Now.”
Kennedy moved fast, already at the first patient—a teen with a compound fracture, conscious but shocky.
“King, grab stabilization gear for the rollover. I’ve got patient one!” Talia called.
The asphalt scorched through her knees as she crouched, heat radiating from twisted steel. Gasoline stung her nose, sharp enough to taste. The kid’s pulse fluttered like a terrified bird beneath her gloved fingers.
Sirens layered behind them. A medic unit arrived. Then another. But she was already triaging, hands moving without pause, directing responders like chess pieces.
The girl in the flipped car had shallow breathing and bruising over her ribs—Talia cleared C-spine and secured her airway before Kennedy even called vitals.
By the time the last patient was packaged, she was drenched in sweat, her voice hoarse from barking orders.
And the scene? Controlled.
Because she’d controlled it.
The Message
Back at the station, she peeled off her gear in the apparatus bay, body buzzing with effort, adrenaline still whispering along her spine.
Her phone buzzed.
A number she didn’t know.
She didn’t need to open it to know what it was.
Still, she did.
A still frame. Blurry. Her and Elijah—her thighs clenched, her hand buried in his hair, her jaw set like a queen’s.
Then a second message.
No sound. Just motion. Her dominance, caught and compressed into pixels.
Her heart didn’t race.
It roared.
Not with shame.
With rage.
Maddox
Dean sat in his office, screen black, his reflection faint in the monitor’s glare.
He’d watched it—the video. No subject. No sender. Just a file.
Talia. Head tilted back, thighs parted, hand in Elijah King’s hair—guiding him. Using him. Her voice was low and commanding. Her breath caught as she pulled him deeper. Controlling every beat of it.
