Page 41 of Dirty Dillon

I close my eyes, bracing myself for the inevitable.

Channeling all my fear and anger and limited memory of a self-defense class my sorority took when I was drunk, I drive my knee into his balls.

“Bitch,” he snarls, grabbing at me again. We struggle, knocking over a table and chair, and I execute a not very well-aimed punch to his temple, but it connects, sending him crashing to the ground.

He doesn’t get up, so he must be unconscious. I hope. But my momentary reprieve is shattered when I notice a flicker of flames in the corner, quickly growing.

“Damn it,” I mutter, realizing that my battle with Blake has inadvertently led to an even more dangerous situation when we knocked a kerosene lamp off the table. I need to find a way to escape before the room becomes my tomb.

The heat in the room intensifies as the hungry flames lick the walls, and I can feel sweat prickling along my brow. Panic claws at my chest, constricting my breathing as I frantically search for an exit. I’m still so woozy.

I make it to the door, but it’s locked from the inside. Damn it.

My heart hammers in my chest as I crawl towards Blake’s unconscious body. “Blake,” I choke out. “The key... where is it?”

He doesn’t respond, and panic floods my veins like ice water. Crawling closer, I reach out and frantically search his pockets, my fingers trembling with urgency.

“Come on, come on,” I murmur to myself, trying to block out the searing heat of the encroaching flames. Finally, my hand closes around a cold, metallic object—the key. Relief washes over me, followed by a renewed determination.

Coughing from the smoke, I insert the key into the lock, turning it with a faint click. Cool air rushes in when I swing the door open, but there’s no time to savor it. I glance back at Blake’s prone form, knowing I have to get him out of here.

I curse under my breath. The floor seems to smolder beneath us as I struggle to drag his unconscious body towards the open door.

Suddenly, the sound of approaching voices cuts through the chaos. My heart leaps with hope as I recognize Dillon’s gruff tone among them.

“Over here!” I shout, my voice barely audible above the crackling flames.

Dillon moves quickly, sweeping me off the floor and into his strong arms. I gasp at the sudden contact, but it’s a comforting contrast to the fiery hell around us. I cling to him, my hands finding purchase in the rough fabric of his shirt, desperation fueling my grip.

“Stay with me, Cressida,” he pleads, his voice a mixture of command and tenderness. “Almost there,” Dillon murmurs.

The cool night air feels like a balm against my heated skin as we finally emerge from the cabin, but my vision starts to blur, dark spots dancing at the edges. The adrenaline that had been sustaining me begins to fade, and exhaustion takes hold.

“Stay with me,” Dillon pleads again, but it’s too late. I surrender to the darkness.

***

The sterile scent ofantiseptic fills my nostrils as I slowly regain consciousness.

Again.

I blink my eyes open, taking in the stark white walls and beeping machines surrounding me. The hospital room feels foreign, a stark contrast to the dark, smoke-filled cabin that haunts my thoughts.

“Thank God, you’re awake,” Dillon’s voice cuts through the silence, and I turn my head to see him perched on the edge of my bed. His rugged features are creased with concern, and I let out a shaky breath at his presence.

“Wh-what happened?” I ask, my voice weak and trembling.

“We got you and Blake out in time. You’ve been unconscious for a while, Cressida.” His hand finds mine, his rough fingers gently squeezing. “You scared the hell out of all of us.”

“Blake...” I remember the heated words exchanged, the revelations about my father’s corruption and his plans to devalue Tempest. “I need to tell you what I learned from him.”

“Shh. He’s under arrest and as soon as they medically release him, he’s going to jail. You can tell me the rest later,” he reassures me, his intense gaze never leaving my face.

I nod.

The door to the sterile hospital room swings open, and a doctor holding a tablet and wearing a white coat approaches my bed.

“Ms. Hamilton, I’m Dr. Shea,” she begins, glancing at me before focusing on the screen in front of her. “Mr. Duke, can you please step out for a few minutes?”

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