17. Marcus

Chapter seventeen

Marcus

M y truck tires shrieked against the pavement as I yanked the wheel hard, nosing into a space just short of the fire lane. The scent of burning plastic and scorched wood filled my nostrils before I even cut the engine. Thick, acrid smoke curled from the upper windows of James's building, dark fingers clawing at the night sky.

Sirens howled in the distance—too far, too slow. They'd get here, but not fast enough for my liking.

People were starting to spill from the building, some half-dressed, clutching bags or pets, all wearing the stunned, disoriented expression of people who'd just had their reality cracked open. A woman in a tattered robe turned to stare at me as I slammed my door shut, her eyes reflecting the red glow of the fire above.

And then I saw him.

James stood near the curb beneath a flickering security light, his shoulders squared but too rigid, the way someone tries to hold themselves together when their body is betraying them. The left sleeve of his dress shirt was charred through, fabric singed into blackened tatters clinging to the skin beneath. He still held his messenger bag slung across his body, the strap stained with soot.

I jogged over to him, my pulse hammering in my ears.

"James." His eyes flicked toward me, but he barely acknowledged my presence.

"There's still time to—"

"No." I reached for him. "Get in the truck."

"We don't know the source yet," he said, his words precise despite the slight tremor in his voice. "It might be contained to the top floors. If so, we should stay, make sure—"

"No." My grip tightened around his good arm. "Emergency crews are already en route. They'll handle it."

His fingers twitched at his side.

"James." My voice dropped into the register I used at collapse sites, at fire scenes when men under my command hesitated one second too long. "You're hurt. And you're coming with me."

His lips parted, but whatever argument he wanted to make withered in his throat. His shoulders wavered for half a second. That was all I needed.

I maneuvered him toward the truck, gripping his elbow more firmly when he tried to resist. The closer we got, the heavier he leaned against me.

When he finally slid into the passenger seat, he winced, his left arm cradled against his ribs. I didn't give him a chance to change his mind. The second his door clicked shut, I threw the truck into gear and pulled out, tires biting into the asphalt.

Through the side mirror, I caught one last glimpse of the apartment building. Smoke poured from the windows, twisting into the sky like a living thing. A distant explosion rattled the air—something structural giving way.

For a split second, I wondered if I was handling this the wrong way. If I should've let him stay and be part of the response, the way his instincts demanded.

Then, I glanced at him. He set his jaw, but a muscle twitched in his cheek. His injured hand trembled against his thigh. The smell of burnt fabric clung to his skin.

No.

I hadn't handled it the right or wrong way. I'd handled it the only way I could.

Because I couldn't lose him.

And if keeping him alive meant dragging him away from a fire he wanted to analyze, then so be it.

The truck's cabin was full of the scent of burnt fabric, smoke, and the sharp chemical bite of melted electronics. I kept the windows cracked, but it didn't help. The fire clung to James like a second skin.

He hadn't spoken since I pulled away from the building. His fingers hovered near his pocket, that ingrained reflex to reach for his phone kicking in. He didn't pull it out. He merely sat there, his jaw clenched, and his eyes locked on the empty streets ahead.

I gripped the wheel too hard, causing the leather to creak under my fingers.

"What happened?" My voice came out tight, barely restrained.

"They were looking for something."

"And torched your place to find it?"

A sharp exhale—somewhere between a laugh and a scoff, but hollow. "Guess I got too close."

Something snapped inside me.

I turned onto a side street harder than necessary, the tires skidding slightly before catching. James didn't react, but I saw how his hand curled tighter around his injured arm, fingers pressing into his sleeve just above the burn. He was in pain. He wouldn't admit it, but I saw it in the way he held himself and in the stiff control of his movements.

I glanced at him, my grip tightening on the wheel. "You need a hospital."

"No, I don't." The answer came too fast.

"James."

"I've had worse." His voice was even, almost clinical.

I exhaled sharply, forcing my temper down. "The skin—"

"It's a second-degree burn, maybe lower end of third in spots, but I don't think there's nerve damage. It just needs to be cleaned and dressed."

"So, you do need medical attention."

James sighed, tipping his head back against the seat. "Not from a hospital. We both know they'd ask questions neither of us want to answer."

I clenched my jaw. He wasn't wrong, but the thought of doing nothing made my pulse hammer harder.

"Fine," I said, taking the next turn a little sharper than necessary. "But you're letting me dress it."

James looked at me, the barest trace of amusement in his expression. "Since when do you have burn treatment credentials?"

I rolled my shoulders. "Since half my crew's walked out of fires looking like you."

He didn't argue after that. He didn't thank meeither, but his posture relaxed visibly.

Trust.

It was something, at least.

The sirens faded behind us. The night stretched quiet, thick, oppressive. I wanted to break it. Wanted to make him understand that this wasn't just another incident report. That this was him, bleeding into the cracks of something much bigger, and I wasn't about to sit back and let it happen.

I slammed my palm against the wheel. "Jesus Christ."

That made him look at me. Just for a second. Then, he responded in a low, calm voice. "This isn't the first time someone's tried to burn evidence."

"No, but it's the first time you were inside while it happened."

He didn't have an answer for that. His grip on his arm tightened again.

I should have slowed down. I should have said something else, something measured, but I couldn't find the words.

All I could see was his sleeve burned into his skin. All I could smell was the smoke in his hair, and all I could hear was how his voice nearly broke when he said, "Guess I got too close."

I kept driving, pushing further from the flames and the wreckage of what should have been James's safe place. He was no longer safe anywhere. And neither was I.

While staring out the passenger side window, James spoke again.

"It's not only about you."

I didn't look at him. "What?"

"Your father." James's fingers flexed against his knee, tension working its way up his arm. "He's part of this. Central to it."

A sharp, ice-pick sensation drove between my ribs. I kept my eyes on the road. "He's been dead twelve years."

"Doesn't matter." James shifted, wincing slightly as the movement tugged at his burn. "To Raines, he's still alive in you. Still teaching. Still transforming."

I forced my grip to loosen on the wheel. "What the hell are you talking about?"

James hesitated long enough that I felt the weight of what was coming before he even said it.

"I found Raines's academy records." His voice dropped lower. "He was there during your father's last year as an instructor. The psychological evaluations and the incident reports paint a picture I should have seen sooner."

A cold stone settled in the pit of my stomach.

"A picture of what?"

"Obsession." James's jaw tightened. "Not only with fire behavior but with how your father understood it. Raines wrote about watching him during night drills, about how Graham moved through flames like—" He stopped momentarily and carefully chose his next words. "Like he belonged there."

I let out a harsh breath, gripping the wheel like it was the only solid thing in the world. "That's bullshit."

"Marcus—"

"My father was a firefighter. Not some kind of mystic."

"In Raines's journals, he describes your father as someone who'd transcended normal human limitations." James's voice wasn't clinical anymore. It was raw as if he were peeling away something fragile and exposing it to the air. "He believed Graham had achieved something profound through his connection to fire. Something beyond mere technical mastery."

"My father didn't achieve anything. He died. The fire won."

"That's not how Raines sees it." James turned slightly in his seat, watching me. "He wrote about transformation through flame. About chosen vessels and worthy inheritors."

My stomach twisted. "Spit it out. What are you saying?"

"Every fire and every message—they're not only about pushing your limits." James's fingers curled around the strap of his messenger bag, knuckles white. "They're about a legacy. About completing what he believes your father started."

I swallowed hard. "You should have told me sooner."

"I was going to." A hint of frustration entered his tone. "Before someone decided to set my bedroom on fire."

I gritted my teeth, eyes locked on the road, trying to steady the burn in my chest. "This ends now."

"Does it?" James's voice was low, radiating unearthly calm. "From where I'm sitting, Raines has been planning this since before your father died. Waiting. Watching. Learning which McCabe would prove worthy of the flame."

The city lights flickered over James's face, casting sharp shadows under his eyes. The smoke still clung to him, a constant reminder of how close the fire had come.

I took the next turn too hard and fast; the truck's tires scraped against the curb. My pulse pounded in my ears.

My response wouldn't be measured. It wouldn't be patient.

If Raines wanted me in the fire, then fine. I'd take him with me.

"Everything makes sense now." James's voice was still soft and low. "He's measuring you against your father's memory. Testing whether you're ready to become what he believes Graham almost achieved."

"And what's that?"

"Someone that can walk through fire unchanged." James took a deep breath. "Someone that transcends normal human limits through pure will and absolute surrender to the flame."

"My father never surrendered to anything."

"No." James's fingers brushed my arm, the touch grounding us both. "And neither will you. That's what scares me most."

My apartment lock engaged with three solid clicks. I drew the blinds while James watched, his posture still too controlled and analytical despite the burn eating through his sleeve.

"Bathroom." I kept my voice steady. "Now."

"Marcus—"

"Don't." I grabbed my med kit from beneath the kitchen sink. "Just... don't."

He followed me. The bathroom's fluorescent light was harsh against his skin, revealing soot smudges I hadn't noticed in the street's shadows.

"Shirt off." I ran through assessment protocols in my head. "Careful with the fabric where it's stuck."

James started unbuttoning with those steady fingers of his but stopped halfway down. The burn had fused cotton to skin across his shoulder.

"Here." I stepped closer, reaching for his collar. "Let me."

"I can manage."

"Let me."

He exhaled slowly, then nodded once.

The fabric came away in careful stages. Each new inch of damaged skin made me flinch, knowing the kind of pain it caused. Second-degree burns spread across his shoulder like a topographic map of what I'd almost lost.

After cleaning the burns slowly and thoroughly, I turned to the dressing process. "Med kit's old." I unscrewed the burn gel cap, focusing on the technical aspects. I tried not to think about how many ways it could have been worse. "But the supplies are current."

"Of course they are." He attempted a bit of dry humor. "You probably inventory it weekly."

"Daily." I smoothed gel over the worst areas, watching him flinch. "After shift change."

He gasped as I hit a particularly raw spot. "Seems excessive."

"Necessary." My fingers trembled against his skin. "Especially now."

The bathroom was quiet except for our breathing and the soft sounds of medical supplies against the counter. James watched me work through the mirror, his eyes underlined by dark folds.

The rage that surged through me was volcanic. I had to force my fingers to stay gentle as I pressed a bandage into place.

"They're not getting near you again."

A humorless laugh came from James. "You can't guarantee that."

"Watch me."

He turned. The movement pulled at his burns, but he didn't flinch. "Marcus, you can't protect everyone."

"I'm not trying to protect everyone." I gripped his jaw with my free hand, thumb brushing ash from his cheek. "Just you."

My bedroom was almost too quiet after the chaos of the night. James stood by my window, his bandaged shoulder stark white against his skin. The city spread out beyond the glass, dark except for emergency lights spinning in the distance. It was another fire crew responding to another call. The job never stopped.

"You're staying here." My voice was firm, brooking no argument.

For once, he didn't try to maintain a professional distance. He merely nodded with a ghostly reflection visible in the window glass.

Another round of silence stretched between us, heavy with everything we weren't saying. With how close we'd come to the night ending differently.

"You scare the hell out of me." The words escaped me before I could stop them.

He turned, that analytical furrow appearing between his brows. "What?"

I dragged a hand over my jaw, feeling the rasp of stubble against my palm. "You walked into a burning warehouse with me. You faced down my family. Tonight, you—" I took a breath before I continued. "You could have died in there, trying to protect evidence about my father."

"Marcus—"

"No." I stepped closer, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his skin. "I can't do this without you. I can't solve this case, and I can't face whatever Raines has planned. None of it works if you're not here."

Something cracked in the careful walls he tried to maintain. They started to crumble.

"I'm here." His voice was barely a whisper.

"Are you?" I caught his face between my hands, careful to avoid his injuries. "Because part of you is still analyzing evidence, still trying to protect me by pushing me away."

"That's not—"

"It is." I traced my thumb along his jaw. "And I need you to stop. Need you to be here, with me, right now."

The kiss was inevitable. It was different from our previous encounters—slower, deeper, weighted with everything we couldn't say. His good hand fisted in my shirt, pulling me closer as if he needed to verify I was real.

I tasted smoke on his tongue. Every point of contact was an anchor, proving we were both still here, still breathing and still fighting our ghostly enemy.

The kiss deepened. His fingers worked at the buttons of my shirt, each coming undone, revealing more of my skin to the room's cool air.

His skin was warm under my touch, his uninjured side smooth and familiar. I trailed my fingers down his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heartbeat. Each beat was a reminder of how close we'd come to losing each other.

James moaned softly as I brushed my lips against his collarbone, then lower, tracing the lines of his chest with soft kisses. His good hand tangled in my hair, guiding me, urging me on.

We moved to the bed, a tangle of limbs and whispered words. I supported his weight, mindful of his injuries, as we sank onto the mattress. His eyes met mine, dark and intense, full of emotions. I saw my reflection there, the fear and longing laid bare.

Every touch was deliberate. I traced the lines of his body, memorizing the feel of his skin and the sound of his breath. His hands explored me in return, mapping out the terrain of my body as if it were new and precious.

The world outside faded away, leaving only the two of us entwined and desperate for connection. The weight of everything we'd been through was nearly suffocating, but in that moment, it was just us, raw and real and alive.

His fingers dug into my back as I moved against him, our bodies finding a rhythm that was both familiar and new. Each movement was a testament to our survival, defiant against the darkness that had tried to claim us.

I whispered his name against his skin. He responded with a deeper moan, his body arching against mine. The scent of sex mingled with antiseptic cream as our hearts began to beat in sync.

In that moment, we were more than partners or survivors. We were two souls clinging to each other in the face of uncertainty, finding solace and strength in our connection. The fear was still there, a constant undercurrent, but our connection overshadowed it.

As we reached the peak of our orgasms, our bodies shook. I held him close, feeling the steady beat of his heart against mine. In that quiet, intimate space, we found a moment of peace, a respite from the storm that raged around us.

When we finally broke apart and collapsed on our backs on the bed, James was breathing hard, his cheek resting against mine.

His eyes were dark and unfocused, the usual sharpness dulled by exhaustion.

I didn't move. Didn't pull away. I wasn't ready to let go yet.

James swallowed, his throat working against the weight of whatever he was trying to say. His voice was rough and frayed at the edges when he finally spoke.

"This is a mistake."

I exhaled slowly, my hand still resting against the back of his neck. "You don't believe that."

A muscle twitched in his jaw. "I—"

"No." I shook my head. "No more pulling back. No more thinking you have to handle this on your own."

He closed his eyes for a second, then forced them open again, searching my face like he was looking for a reason to believe me. "You don't know what you're getting into."

I sighed. "I think I do."

"You don't stop, do you?"

"Not when it matters."

James held my gaze for a long moment, then sighed, his good hand lifting just enough to brush over my ribs, the touch light but deliberate.

"Raines isn't going to stop either. Not until he gets what he wants."

"Then we don't let him." I pulled back to gaze deeply into his eyes. "We take the fight to him."

James exhaled. "That's not really a plan."

"It's the start of one."

His lips twitched like he wanted to argue, but he didn't. He merely studied me.

I reached down, taking his good wrist in my hand, pressing his palm against my chest.

"I'm here," I said quietly. "And I'm not going anywhere."

He didn't say anything. Didn't pull away. His fingers rested against my chest, my heart pounding beneath them.

And for now, that was enough.

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