Page 5 of Controlled Burn
Maddox
He closed his eyes as the door shut behind her. The faintest trace of her perfume—Chanel, and smoke—hung in the air.
He tried to focus on the paperwork, the drills, the shift ahead, but his mind kept returning to her—her defiance, her strength, the challenge in her eyes.
He opened her file and began to type: Failure to uphold uniform standards...
He backspaced.
Conduct unbecoming...
Backspace again.
No policy had been broken—only a truth he couldn’t erase.
He wanted her—and that was the problem.
So he ordered her back to the engine company—let Reyes deal with the fallout—and sank into the quiet of his office. But his eyes never left the glass door.
Every burst of her laughter. Every sly glance cast over her shoulder. Every time she hoisted that heavy hose like it was nothing.
She doesn’t just bend the rules. She shatters them.
And the worst part? I want her more each time.
It wasn’t about punishment. Not even possession. It was the ache—knowing she could break him with a look and wanting him to break her back.
From his window, he watched her leaning into some greenhorn’s joke, the sun catching blond highlights in her braid. His jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached.
Every time he looked at her, the line moved.
And he wasn’t sure how long he could keep himself from crossing it.
Chapter 3
She’s Your Problem Now
Dean Maddox didn’t look up when Reyes knocked.
“Come in.”
The door groaned on rusty hinges—everything in this place old and raw, bones under skin. Reyes slid inside, bunker coat half-unzipped, grinning like a man who’d never touched a live wire but desperately wanted to.
“You wanted to talk about Cross?” Reyes asked, arms crossed tight, faded coat straining at the seams.
Maddox leaned back, tension flaring along his neck. Fingers drummed the battered desk—papers scattered, her transfer slip on top, bureaucratic ink slicing a line through his morning.
“She’s on Engine 12 now. She’s yours.”
Reyes’s grin slipped. “Wait—what?”
“She’s off my truck. Starting today.”
Reyes stepped in, boots heavy on tired linoleum, bringing the sour tang of sweat and station life. “She screw something up?”
Maddox’s hand curled into a fist, flexing until the glove creaked. He could’ve said mouthy, undisciplined, or confessedthe way she made his pulse hammer. Instead, he kept it clipped. “She needs structure. She’s not responding to my oversight.
A low laugh coiled through the slats of the blinds, sunlight splitting Reyes’s face in stripes. “Structure, huh?” He braced knuckles on the desk. “Looks more like you’re cutting her loose before she scorches you.”
