Page 68 of Controlled Burn
He looked at her—really looked. Saw the courage and the ruin, the bravado and the ache.
“I never meant to drag you into this,” he said, voice raw.
“You didn’t,” she answered. “I ran headfirst.”
A gust of wind pulled at their hair. The city sparkled around them, but in that moment, they were the only ones burning.
And somewhere, deep in the pit of his gut, Dean knew this was only the beginning. The next fire was already smoldering, just waiting for a spark.
Talia
She was still trembling when she finally found her voice—knees red and raw from gravel, sweat drying sticky on her skin, lips bruised from how hard he’d kissed her. She watched the city lights blur and scatter, her chest so full it ached.
She pulled her knees up, arms curled tight around them, hiding a shiver that wasn’t from cold. Her mind was a tangle—still replaying the sound of his belt, the scrape of brick on her spine, the burn of his hand in her hair. The way his control snapped and he took her like he’d needed it for years.
Her thighs were sticky. Her pulse still pounded in places she didn’t dare touch. She could still feel his claim inside her—raw, unfiltered, something she’d never admit to wanting, except with him.
Every sense was too sharp: sweat and sex and city heat, the copper taste of blood on her tongue where she’d bitten his lip, the ache between her legs, the way her lungs still struggled to pull air.
She glanced at him, silent and stone-still, face drawn in pain and awe and relief. It was the look of a man who’d crossed a line—and wasn’t sorry.
She’d never felt more seen. Never more claimed. Never more herself.
Her voice, when it came, was small and rough. “I’ll take the blame,” she said, a half-smile twisting her lips. “I’ll take it all if it means I get this. You. Even for just one night.”
She reached for his hand, lacing her fingers through his, squeezing tight, her touch fierce and unafraid.
“I don’t care if it ruins me,” she whispered, mouth at his shoulder, the words fierce as prayer. “I want to remember how this felt. The burn. The breaking. All of it. Even if we both go down in flames.”
She leaned into him, sweat, tears, and laughter burning away the last of her fear. Down on the street, the city kept moving, but up here, they were untouchable. Unforgiven. Unapologetic.
If this were the beginning of the end, Talia would go smiling. Because for once, she wasn’t running from the fire. She was the one setting it.
Chapter 25
Afterglow
Talia
She moved through the dark like a thief—heart pounding, skin still stinging from where he’d gripped her too hard, where his mouth had left marks she’d be covering for days. Every inch of her still thrummed with the aftershocks of rooftop sin, her body aching with a satisfaction that felt almost violent.
She should have left. Should have run down the fire escape and never looked back. Instead, she lingered just beyond the stairwell, clutching her torn shirt tight, listening to the rustle of Dean’s uniform as he dressed.
Then—his voice. Low, calm, as if he hadn’t just broken every rule he’d ever sworn to uphold.
“Yeah, I’m still at the station,” he said quietly, the words muffled through the old cinderblock. “No, I’m not coming home tonight. We’ve got a late inspection in the morning. I’ll stop for groceries before I head in… No, it’s fine, just a long day. Tell Zach goodnight for me. I’ll call before school.”
He paused. The silence stretched. Then, softer: “Yeah. Love you too.”
The words landed like a slap—sharp, humiliating, unmistakable. Love you too.
Talia pressed herself against the wall, fighting the urge to laugh or scream. Not twenty minutes ago, she’d had him inside her, his hands everywhere, his breath ragged in her ear. And now—now he was Dean Maddox, Captain, family man, giving his wife a routine update before settling in for a night at the station.
Her stomach twisted. Rage and shame tangled so tight she couldn’t breathe.
She waited until she heard him walk away, boots heavy on the stairs. When the coast was clear, she slipped into the shower and turned the water as hot as she could stand it. She scrubbed at her skin like she could erase what they’d done—like maybe if she were clean enough, she’d stop feeling like a dirty little secret.
But she couldn’t shake off the ache. Not the throb between her legs, not the bruises on her hips, not the echo of his voice promising a life he’d never give her.
