Page 12 of Controlled Burn
She let her hand trail up his collar. “Because I see the way you look at me. Like you want to ruin me to feel how good it’d be.”
His grip loosened—his only surrender.
“Put your damn shirt on,” he managed, turning away. “And get out.”
She let him go, hips swaying as she tugged on her shirt. “Yes, sir,” she said, every word a promise, and strode out, leaving a trail of heat in her wake.
***
In the hallway, Talia rounded the corner and froze.
Lieutenant McKenna stood there—tall, dark hair slicked into a perfect bun, uniform crisp, her presence commanding instant respect. Talia liked her—a rare woman in the firehouse who’d earned her stripes and never once let the place change her. McKenna’s arms were crossed, one brow lifted in an unspoken challenge.
“Lieutenant,” Talia greeted, steady despite her racing heart.
“Cross.” McKenna’s nod carried both warning and respect. “That kind of heat’s going to burn someone.”
Talia’s mouth quirked. “Not if you know what you’re doing.”
McKenna’s gaze searched her. “Do you?”
Talia didn’t answer—just stepped past, each footfall a quiet victory.
Outside, the noonday sun hit like a rebuke. Not the blaze they’d just fought, but the one still raging inside her. Maddox was a brand seared beneath her skin, and she hadn’t even imagined the hunger in his eyes when he touched her. She’d seen how his restraint cracked for a heartbeat. And the worst part?
She wanted to pull the thread until he came undone.
Chapter 6
Drills
Talia
The gym door slammed behind him, but in here it was only her world. She tightened her grip on the blackout lens, snapping it into place over her SCBA mask. The world went black—no glow from exit signs, no hint of the bay’s harsh lights—just the weight of her gear and the pounding of blood in her ears.
“Cross. Mask down.”
His command crackled through the comms, and her heart answered with a hard, steady beat. Control it. Breathe through it. Please don’t give him the satisfaction.
“We’re simulating zero visibility. One victim. Three rooms. Ninety seconds.”
“Copy.” Her voice sounded distant, muffled, but fierce. At twenty-three, her body was all lean muscle and sun-kissed skin, honed by endless days under bunker gear. She dropped to her hands and knees, fingertips brushing the plywood floor, searching the left wall—the law of left-hand search drilled into her since orientation.
Each crawl felt like chewing through thick smoke: her turnout pants clung damp and heavy, heat radiating up her legs as if the building itself remembered its last blaze. The acrid stench of rubber and charred wood filled her lungs, burned her throat—she welcomed it like a baptism. This wasn’t a drill. It was her proving ground: for the crew, for her father’s memory, and most of all, for him—Captain Maddox, who watched her through the haze of his own making.
She found the dummy’s shoulder in the first room—its plastic face cracked from last week’s drop drills. She hauled it low and heavy, every muscle screaming, dragging it back toward the entry spot.
“Layout,” his voice snapped.
Her pulse kicked up as she spat out the details: “Living room—open entry. Couch on right. Hallway two doors down. Bedroom left. Bunk on right, victim prone in far corner.”
Silence, thick as smoke. Then: “Again.”
Five runs of layout, each twist crueler than the last. One time, they flooded the corridor—water sloshing over her boots. Another, chairs overturned, and cords knotted her path. On her final go, she clawed her knuckles raw opening a blocked door, the sting sharper than any fire’s heat. A rookie tapped out after his second run; she swallowed the tremor in her lungs and pressed on.
*I won’t be the weak link.*
Her father had worn this helmet. She would bleed for it, sweat for it, and maybe—maybe—earn his approval all overagain. She hauled the dummy out one last time, her shoulders on fire, her lungs screaming, her mask slick with sweat.
