Burn Patterns (First in Line #1)

13. Marcus

Chapter thirteen

Marcus

I killed the engine outside the house that had sheltered four rowdy boys through two decades of storms, both meteorological and emotional. The facade hadn't changed—brick and cedar rising against the cloudy spring sky, carrying its age with the same stubborn grace as the woman who ruled within.

Dark ivy crept up the eastern wall, the same vines Dad had threatened to tear down but never had. Now, the plants reached past my old bedroom window. Nature was slowly reclaiming our family fortress.

The porch light shone warm and golden across steps worn smooth by thousands of footfalls—work boots, running shoes, and little league cleats. The swing Dad had hung the summer before I started high school creaked its familiar rhythm, the chains rusted but strong.

I tensed slightly as I watched James take it all in. His researcher's eyes noted every detail—the ancient rake propped by the door, mismatched boots scattered across the porch, and the hand-painted welcome sign Matthew had made in third grade that no one had the heart to take down.

Beneath his professional observation, his anxiety registered in subtle ways. His fingers drummed once against his thigh, and then I saw the barely-there tightening at the corners of his eyes.

"Too late to run, Doc." I aimed to lighten the moment because bringing him to the place that laid the foundation for who I'd become mattered.

"I'm not running. I'm only questioning my life choices." He reached across the car's console and wove his fingers with mine for a moment, followed by a soft smile.

"Smart man." I squeezed once before letting go. "Ma's got sauce simmering, and if we don't go inside soon, she'll come out here and drag us to the dining room herself. She's done it before."

A rich aroma of garlic and tomatoes drifted through the screened kitchen window. It was Ma's sauce—the recipe she'd brought from her grandmother's kitchen in Naples and regularly used to coax stories from tight-lipped teenage sons and new dates. It also worked as a salve to heal broken hearts.

James's shoulder brushed mine as we climbed the steps, the contact grounding us both. For a heartbeat, I saw Dad there—stretched out on the porch swing after a long shift, beer in hand, always ready to listen when one of his boys needed to talk.

"Ready?" I asked, my hand on the screen door's handle. The ancient spring creaked in protest.

James squared his shoulders. "As I'll ever be."

I guided him inside with a light touch at the small of his back. The door banged shut behind us with the same slam that had earned my brothers and me a thousand maternal warnings.

The kitchen's warmth embraced us. Three pots dominated the massive Garland range—the steel behemoth Dad had salvaged from a restaurant remodel.

Ma rolled her eyes and said, "Dio mio, what am I going to do with all these burners?" right before she proceeded to use every inch of the range for the next two decades of family feasts.

Steam rose in fragrant clouds from a pot of wine-braised short ribs. My mother moved through her domain with the fluid efficiency that came from ruling the space for three decades. She didn't acknowledge our entrance. She was too focused on her wooden spoon's steady rhythm through what smelled like her signature marinara.

She'd twisted her silver hair into its usual crown, secured with the rosewood chopsticks Michael had brought back from his last deployment. Her sauce-stained apron declaring "Kiss the Cook" had been Miles's idea of a joke last Mother's Day.

"You look like hell," she said without turning, and I caught the subtle strengthening of her accent—the little tell that meant she was worried. The spoon never broke its hypnotic pattern, moving through the sauce.

"Nice to see you too, Ma." I crossed the kitchen to kiss her cheek, breathing in the familiar mixture of Italian spices and the rose-scented hand cream she'd worn since before I could remember. Up close, the tightness in her shoulders meant she'd probably spent the afternoon stress-cleaning while pretending not to watch the clock.

When she finally turned, her dark eyes focused squarely on James. She instantly evaluated everything about him: the precise knot of his tie, how he held himself under scrutiny, and even the shine on his shoes.

"And you must be the profiler." The wooden spoon pointed at him like a judge's gavel, dripping marinara onto the freshly mopped floor.

James, bless him, stepped forward with perfect composure. "James Reynolds. Thank you for having me." He extended his hand, and I saw a brief moment of surprise in Ma's expression. Most of my previous dates had waited for her to approach them.

She studied his handshake offer the way she used to examine our palms for hidden scrapes. "You eat?"

James hesitated, and I watched his researcher's brain try to calculate the correct response to this deceptively simple question. "Uh—"

I leaned close. "Say yes. Trust me." Three decades of Sunday dinners had taught me there was only one acceptable answer.

"Good. Sit down before the food gets cold." She turned back to her pots, but not before a quick smile animated her lips.

The woman who'd raised four boys to run into burning buildings and gunfire had just offered her first subtle blessing. And James, brilliant man that he was, had navigated her opening gambit without even knowing the rules of engagement.

A small weight lifted off my shoulders, but as I watched Ma add another handful of fresh basil to the sauce, I knew we were only getting started. The real test would come when Michael arrived.

Around the oak dining room table clustered an ever-evolving collection of chairs, no two exactly alike. Each one had its own story—the antique ladder-back Ma found at a yard sale, the sturdy captain's chair that had been Dad's, and the modern ergonomic piece Miles had contributed after declaring the old wooden seats "a chiropractor's dream."

Matthew and Miles held court at their usual spots, plates already heaped with Ma's garlic bread. Matthew sprawled in his chair with the loose-limbed ease of someone who spent their days maneuvering in tight spaces. Miles sat straighter, his crisis counselor's observation skills sharp even in the comfort of home, reading the room's emotional temperature as naturally as breathing.

Matthew's grin spread wide and wicked when he caught sight of us. "Good to see you again, James." His eyes sparkled. "This is the guy who's been keeping our big brother out past curfew."

Miles, ever the more observant brother, raised an eyebrow as he studied James. "You didn't tell us he was a psychologist."

"That's 'cause Marcus knew we'd grill the poor bastard." Matthew leaned forward, elbows on the ancient oak, beer bottle dangling from his fingers. "Can't blame him. Remember what happened to Michael's first date?"

"The one who tried to psychoanalyze Ma's sauce recipe?" Miles's lips twitched. "I think he made it halfway through explaining the symbolism of oregano before Ma started praying in Italian."

James slid into an empty chair. Even here, surrounded by the controlled chaos of a McCabe family dinner, he maintained that quiet composure I'd first noticed at the warehouse fire scene. "I'd be disappointed if you didn't ask questions. Though I should warn you—I charge my usual consultation rates for mealtime analysis."

Miles's quiet chuckle mingled with Matthew's surprised bark of laughter. "Alright, I like him," Matthew declared, raising his beer in salute. "Anyone who can give as good as they get at this table's got potential."

The warm glow of their approval settled in my chest. I explained that James's background was in psychology, but he now used his skills to fight arson instead of counseling the distressed. Before I could relax into the dinner too much, heavy footsteps in the hallway announced a late arrival.

Michael entered like an approaching storm front. My SWAT team brother always knew how to command attention. He crossed to his chair—Dad's old captain's seat—with the controlled grace that had made him the youngest team leader in department history.

The warm scents of Ma's cooking seemed to fade beneath the weight of his silence. He studied James, looking for weaknesses.

James met his gaze without flinching. He waited, calm and immovable.

The silence stretched like piano wire, humming with unspoken questions. Around us, the familiar sounds of Sunday dinner faded to background static.

Before the moment could intensify any further, Ma's voice cut through the taut scene. "Michael James McCabe, if you don't pass that bread basket right now, I'm getting out the baby photos."

And just like that, the tension eased one notch. Not gone—not by a long shot. But the immediate threat of a bomb detonating had passed.

Dinner moved along, much as usual for a Sunday dinner. Ma's short ribs fell off the bone at the slightest touch, and the sauce was rich enough to make Miles close his eyes in appreciation. Matthew told stories about his latest rescue calls between bites of garlic bread, his hands sketching scenes in the air while Ma tsked at the crumbs falling on her tablecloth.

Beneath the familiar Sunday rhythms, stress lingered. I saw the subtle signs in Michael's controlled movements and how his eyes tracked James's every gesture. My SWAT brother had interrogated suspects with less intensity than he was currently applying to watching James reach for the salt.

The serving dishes circled the table in their usual pattern, a dance we'd learned at Dad's insistence. "Pass left, serve right, and make sure everyone gets enough" was one of his cardinal rules, right up there with checking your gear twice and never leaving a brother behind. James picked up the rhythm naturally as if he'd been part of our Sunday dinners for years instead of minutes.

When Michael finally spoke, his voice was firm and steady. "So, tell me, Professor. What's your expert opinion on why some asshole is setting my brother's life on fire?"

The question landed like an unexploded hand grenade in the middle of the table. Matthew's fork froze halfway to his mouth. Miles set his water glass down with deliberate care.

I slowly closed my hands into fists, ready to step in and shield James from an interrogation disguised as dinner conversation. Then, he surprised me again.

He finished chewing his bite of short rib, dabbed his mouth with his napkin, and met Michael's stare with the same steady calm he showed at crime scenes. There was no rushed defensive reaction or academic posturing. It was the quiet certainty that had first drawn me to him.

"He's not trying to kill Marcus."

Michael tilted his head, a gesture I recognized from a thousand tactical briefings. "No?"

"Not yet." James set his napkin aside, his hands steady as he folded it with precise corners. "He's shaping him. Breaking him down, piece by piece, to build him into something new. Every fire and photo is part of a transformation process. Our arsonist sees himself as an artist, and Marcus is his masterpiece in progress."

"And you know this how?" Michael's voice turned skeptical.

James's hands remained perfectly still on the table, but something shifted in his eyes. It was a shadow I recognized from late-night conversations and the moments when his professional mask slipped enough to show the scars beneath. "Because I've seen it before."

The table fell silent except for the soft tick of Ma's ancient kitchen clock and the distant whisper of traffic on rain-slick streets. Even Matthew, who could talk through a four-alarm fire, held his breath.

Michael studied James for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he nodded, just once. Not acceptance—not yet. It was an acknowledgment of a shared understanding.

Ma broke the moment by sliding another helping of short ribs onto James's plate. "Mangia," she said firmly. "You're too skinny to fight monsters on an empty stomach."

The ghost of a smile touched James's lips, and some of the strain drained from his shoulders. He picked up his fork, but I noticed he kept his free hand where Michael could see it. It was a professional courtesy.

I reached under the table and found James's knee, squeezing once. It was a silent thank you for standing his ground and understanding what my family needed to hear.

Around us, dinner slowly resumed its normal rhythm. Something had shifted—as subtle as a change in wind direction. Michael might not fully trust James yet, but he'd recognized something in him—the same steel core that let him walk into burning buildings and face down monsters wearing human skin.

The real question was whether that would be enough when the flames finally reached our door.

***

Seattle's evening rain painted the streets in liquid neon, traffic lights bleeding red and green across my windshield. The drive home settled into silence, broken only by the rhythmic sweep of wipers and the soft patter of water against glass. Through the side mirror, I watched my childhood home recede until it was a warm glow in the gathering dark, like the last embers of a campfire.

James sat utterly still in the passenger seat, his hands folded precisely in his lap. To anyone else, he might have appeared composed and professional. I'd learned to read the subtle language of his unease.

We were halfway down Lake Washington Boulevard before he finally exhaled, a long breath that addressed the weight of the entire evening. "Your family is intense."

"They're alright." I guided the car around a gentle curve. "You survived."

A slight bit of laughter escaped him. "Barely. Michael's still deciding whether or not to use me for target practice."

"If he was gonna, he'd have done it before dessert." I glanced over, seeing how the passing streetlights painted shadows across his face. "Ma's tiramisu is sacred ground. No bloodshed allowed until after coffee."

That earned me a real laugh, soft but genuine. "Your mother is... remarkable."

"That's one word for her." I smiled, remembering the way she'd kept filling James's plate, muttering in Italian about too-skinny professors who didn't eat enough. "Pretty sure she's already planning next Sunday's menu to fatten you up."

"I noticed." His voice softened. "The way she runs that kitchen... it's like watching a conductor with an orchestra."

"More like a general commanding troops." The comparison jogged another memory. "Dad used to say she could have run the entire fire department with a wooden spoon and her marinara recipe."

The mention of my father settled between us. James's hand moved, hesitated, then settled on my thigh. Not demanding, just... present. Anchoring.

Rain drummed steadily against the roof of my truck. We passed the spot where the Burke-Gilman Trail curved away from the lake, where I usually turned on my morning runs. It was the same route our arsonist photographed, tracking my patterns.

James's fingers tightened slightly on my leg as if he could read the direction of my thoughts. Maybe he could. He'd gotten eerily good at that lately.

"You know what Michael was really asking," he said quietly. It wasn't a question.

I nodded, keeping my eyes on the rain-slick road. "He wanted to know if you could handle it. If you were strong enough to face what's coming."

"And what do you think?"

The question hung in the darkness between us. I thought about how he'd met Michael's stare without flinching and spoken the truth without hiding behind academic language. He carried his scars with a grace that made mine feel less lonely.

I spoke carefully. "I think that you're a lot stronger than any of us first assumed. Including me."

James turned to study my profile. Analyzing, always analyzing, but there was something else there, too—something warm and wondering.

The rain grew heavier, drops hammering against the windshield. We were almost to my apartment where another kind of test waited. Dinner had been one thing—controlled chaos in a protected space. What came next couldn't help but be painfully honest and more intimate.

I wasn't sure which scared me more: the arsonist watching from the shadows or how James had somehow slipped past every defense I'd built since Dad died.

My door's lock clicked behind us. Neither of us moved to hit the lights. The rain was softer, a gentle patter on the windows.

James stood in the middle of my living room, his silhouette sharp against the backdrop of Seattle's skyline. I watched him from the doorway, suddenly unsure of my footing in my own space.

He wasn't merely another date or even a boyfriend. It was James, who'd just survived trial by McCabe family dinner. James, who'd faced down my SWAT team brother without flinching. James, who knew what kind of monster was hunting me and chose to stay anyway.

"You're still here."

He turned, and even in the dim light, the complexity in his expression registered. "Yeah. I am."

I moved toward him slowly. When I finally reached him, I touched the edge of his jacket. The wool was still damp from the rain, but his slim body was solid and real underneath. His breath caught a small sound in the quiet room.

"This is a bad idea." His voice said one thing, but his hands were already rising to my shoulders, betraying his words.

I let my lips gently touch his jawline, feeling the slight rasp of evening stubble. "Probably."

Then his fingers were in my hair, and there was nothing slow about it anymore. He pulled me closer with a desperation that matched the storm in my chest. I backed him against the window, glass cool against his spine as I caught his mouth with mine. His hands slid under my shirt, mapping the muscles of my back.

I understood the urgency. Every touch was like another small anchor, proving we were both still here and whole. His teeth grazed my bottom lip, and I groaned, pressing him harder against the glass. Seattle's lights spilled around us, turning him into a study in shadows and sharp edges.

"Marcus." My name was barely a breath against my mouth. His fingers dug into my shoulders, and he trembled. Not from fear. It was something else. Something deeper.

I pulled back enough to see his face and watch his eyes drift open. The careful walls he maintained, the professional distance he wore like armor, had cracked. In their place was something fierce and wanting and a little bit broken.

"I've got you." I pressed the words into the skin beneath his ear, feeling his pulse race against my lips. "I've got you."

His laugh was shaky. "Isn't that supposed to be my line? I'm the one who's supposed to be protecting you."

"Maybe we protect each other." I smoothed my thumb over his cheekbone. "Maybe that's the point."

Something shifted in his expression. "Your family," he said quietly, "they're terrified of losing you. Like they lost your father."

The observation should have doused the heat between us like a bucket of ice water. Instead, it made me pull him closer until his heartbeat pounded against my chest. "I know."

"So am I." The confession was barely audible, but it hit hard, like a battering ram to my chest.

James's admission ignited something primal within me. I crushed my lips against his, pouring every ounce of my pent-up emotion into the kiss.

His response was immediate and fierce. Our tongues clashed, exploring each other with desperate hunger.

His hands fumbled with the buttons of my shirt, tearing it open to expose my chest. I kicked off my shoes, my pants quickly following. He did the same, our clothes strewn haphazardly across the floor.

The room's cool air did nothing to temper the heat between us. I backed him against the window again, the cold glass a stark contrast to the fires burning inside us. His body was taut, every muscle defined and straining. I ran my hands over his chest, feeling the rapid rise and fall of his breath. His heart pounded against my palm, which matched my racing pulse.

James's fingers dug into my hips, pulling me closer. His arousal was hard and insistent against my thigh. I ground against him, eliciting a low moan that vibrated through his chest. His hands roamed over my back, nails biting into my skin with a delicious sting.

I trailed kisses down his neck, tasting the salt of his skin. His head fell back, exposing the vulnerable line of his throat. I nipped at the tender flesh, feeling his pulse quicken under my lips. His hands tangled in my hair, holding me close as I explored every inch of him.

His breath caught in his throat when I moved lower, tracing the lines of his collarbone with my tongue. His heartbeat kicked into a frantic drumbeat that echoed my desire, and his body trembled under my touch, a silent plea for more.

I dropped to my knees, my hands sliding down his sides. His breath came in ragged gasps as I took him in my mouth, the taste of him overwhelming my senses. His fingers tightened in my hair, guiding me as I took him deeper.

His hips moved in sync with my movements, a dance of desperation and need.

James pulled me up from the floor, his mouth crashing against mine in a bruising kiss. His hands roamed over my body, pausing just long enough to pinch a nipple, sending a sharp, delicious moment of pain through me.

His need was a mirror of my own. We were both on the edge, teetering on the brink of something wild and untamed.

I spun him around, pressing him against the window again. His breath fogged the glass as I shoved his pants down. I pulled a condom pack from my pocket and tore it open with my teeth.

When I first entered James, it was a slow, deliberate slide that had us both gasping. His body clenched around me, a tight, hot grip that threatened to undo me.

I moved slowly at first, savoring the feel of him. His body responded to mine, meeting each thrust with a roll of his hips. The room was suddenly full of the sound of our ragged breathing, full-throated moans, and the wet slap of skin against skin. The air reeked of sex.

James's hands braced against the window, fingers splayed wide. Our reflection in the glass was a tangle of limbs and desperate need.

I increased my pace, driving into him with a ferocity that had us both crying out. His body trembled under my hands, and his breath came in short, sharp gasps. I sensed his release building, a tightening coil of tension that threatened to snap.

With a final, desperate thrust, I sent us both over the edge. James's body convulsed around me, a wave of pleasure that left us both shaking. I held him close, feeling his heartbeat gradually slow against my chest.

In the aftermath, we stood there, bodies pressed together, breathing slowly returning to normal. The room was silent except for the gentle patter of rain against the window.

I pressed a soft kiss against his shoulder, feeling a sense of peace wash over me."I've got you," I whispered again as the truth of the words settled deep within me.

Outside, the rain picked up again, drumming against the windows like approaching footsteps. Somewhere in the city, our arsonist was watching, waiting, planning his next masterpiece. But here, at this moment, with James warm and solid in my arms, I found something I hadn't even known I was missing.

It was a different kind of shelter—a different kind of home.