Page 88 of Controlled Burn
The memory made him hard and hollow at the same time.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
He pressed a hand over his eyes, jaw clenched, breath shaking.
He wanted to apologize. Wanted to beg her forgiveness. But more than that—he wanted to fuck her until she broke again, until she sobbed and screamed and forgot her own name.
He didn’t know which part of him was sicker—the man who ruined her, or the man who couldn’t stop needing her ruin.
Sleep never came.
Only hunger. Only shame. Only longing.
And the ache—always, always, the ache for more.
Chapter 32
Pressure Cage
Maddox
The station smelled like brush fire and bleach. Same as always. But not to him. Not this time.
Dean moved through the halls like he was underwater. Every sound was muffled. Every glance suspicious. Every breath was too loud in his lungs. He kept his shoulders squared, his expression locked in place—calm, controlled, unreadable.
But inside? He was a fucking mess.
It had been four days since he showed up at her apartment. Four days since he'd shoved her against the wall and taken what he never should've touched again. Four days since he'd heard her whisper Don't with a tear in her voice and need in her hips.
And it hadn't left him.
He'd jerked off in the shower that night like a man possessed, still tasting her on his tongue. Still hearing her say fuck you as her body begged for more. He came hard against the tile and nearly punched the wall after. Then he threw up from the guilt.
Now he walked the engine bay like a ghost, every footstep tight with tension.
And she was still here. Still existing in his periphery like a knife aimed at his ribs.
Talia Cross. Rookie firefighter. Smart mouth. Dangerous eyes. Wearing her uniform like armor. Bunker pants slung low on her hips. Hair tied up but never neat. The curve of her neck was exposed like an invitation. Her lips were a quiet dare.
She didn't look at him. Not once. Not even when they stood shoulder to shoulder during drills. Not when she passed him on the stairs. Not when she stood beside Ryan at the coffee machine, laughing like she hadn't cried out his name in the dark.
And that? That was worse than anything.
Dean would've preferred her rage. Her accusations. A slap across the face. But she gave him nothing.
And in that silence, he unraveled.
The crew noticed. Ryan's eyes tracked him like he was waiting for a blow to land. Brooks avoided him. Even McKenna gave him a glance the other day that said, "Pull it together or get the fuck out."
But it was Chief Stark who finally forced his hand.
Dean had just come off a call—trash fire, easy knockdown—when Stark pulled him aside by the engine.
"You got a minute?"
Dean nodded, wiping sweat from his neck. "Yeah. What's up?"
"I got HR breathing down my neck," Stark said. "This shit with your crew—Cross, Watts, and that rookie triangle mess—it's turning into a PR nightmare. You think I want to deal with another lawsuit this year?"
