19. James
Chapter nineteen
James
M arcus's arm lay heavy across my waist as the morning broke. Somewhere in the wee hours of the morning, we'd made it back to his bed. His breath warmed the nape of my neck.
We had one day left before heading to Coeur d'Alene. Two days left before the race and a grim reckoning.
The sheets tangled around us held our mingled scents—clean sweat, faint traces of fabric softener, and that indefinable warmth that had become home when I wasn't looking. My analytical mind tried to sort it and break it into component parts like any other equation, but some things defied clinical evaluation.
Like the revelation swelling inside me, threatening to burst: I love him.
It wasn't a sudden epiphany. No, it had been building, slow and relentless, like pressure simmering beneath a sealed lid. Ignored, denied, but never absent.
Now, it crystallized into those three simple words. I love him.
I stared at the wall, watching dawn creep across the textured paint, pale streaks dissolving shadows, while my pulse hammered against my ribs. Marcus shifted closer in his sleep, his fingers trailing unconsciously along my side—a featherlight touch that reeked of casual intimacy.
My throat tightened. A lump formed, raw and unmovable, as if those three words had taken on substance, filling space I didn't know I had available. I swallowed against it, trying to force it down, but it stayed there, stubborn and solid.
"Your brain's running a marathon," he mumbled against my shoulder, voice rough with sleep.
I blinked, trying to find refuge in logic. "That's physiologically impossible."
Marcus didn't comment. Instead, he shifted his position, sliding his palm across my chest until it landed right over my racing heart. His touch grounded me. "Want to argue the evidence?"
I rolled toward him. His face was softer now, stripped of the sharp edges he wore for protection during the day. His eyes were half-lidded, his hair a mess, and dense stubble dusted his jaw. This was Marcus without walls.
Those three words crowded my throat. They perched there, trembling on the edge of escape. I sensed them pressing against my teeth, begging for release.
Fear held them back.
So, instead, I let my fingers trace the line of his jaw, savoring the rasp of whiskers against my skin. It was a brief indulgence.
"Things to do," I insisted, forcing myself upright. The sheets fell away, cool air rushing against my skin, but nothing could chase away the heat burning in my chest.
I knew that if I stayed in bed, I'd say it. And once spoken, there would be no taking it back.
I didn't look at Marcus as I headed for the shower, but his gaze lingered—not demanding, just there, like gravity. The bathroom door clicked shut behind me.
I pressed my forehead against the cool tile, breath ragged, and let the ache hollow me out from the inside, wishing the water could wash away the words I was too afraid to say.
***
Lake Washington stretched before us, a vast expanse of slate and emerald beneath the morning mist. The water's surface rippled with hidden currents, each small wave a reminder of depths I'd spent decades avoiding. The copper taste of fear crept onto my tongue.
Marcus moved with practiced efficiency beside me, stripping down to his training gear. He'd made peace with water years ago. He'd shared with me his own fraught memory of nearly drowning as a child, but somehow, he conquered it by immersing himself in training.
"You ready?" I asked.
He shot me a grin, quick and sharp. "Born ready."
He jogged into the shallows without hesitation, cutting through the surface with a clean dive that barely disturbed the water. For him, it was effortless. Natural as breathing.
My heart slammed against my ribs—not from the childhood memory of hands holding me under or the bone-deep cold waiting in the lake's depths. The terror stemmed from standing still while Marcus moved forward. From the possibility of letting fear defeat me one more time.
Before I could overthink it, I bent down and unlaced my shoes. The concrete sidewalk was rough against my bare feet as I took that first step toward the water's edge.
Ice shot through my legs as the water lapped at my ankles. Every instinct screamed to retreat, but I forced another step. Then another. The water climbed higher, drenching my jeans—calves, knees, thighs. My pulse roared in my ears, drowning out everything except the mantra in my head: Keep moving. Keep breathing. Keep going.
Marcus swam closer, stopping where the water hit his waist.
"You good?" he asked, voice carrying across the water.
I sucked in a breath that tasted of lake water at dawn. "Not dead yet."
His smile softened, something warmer slipping through the cracks. He moved closer, the water rippling around him, gentle and patient. "Pretty low standard there, Doc."
A broken laugh escaped me as I managed another step forward. The water pressed against my thighs, cold enough to steal my breath, but I remained upright. Still breathing.
"You don't have to prove anything," Marcus said softly.
I shook my head, muscles trembling from more than just the cold. "Not proving it to you."
His eyes met mine, open and unguarded, and for a moment, the water wasn't the only thing pulling me under. Our history lay just beneath his gaze, things unsaid pressing between us.
Marcus pulled up close. "Talk to me," he said quietly. "What's going through that head of yours?"
"Calculating the precise temperature needed to induce hypothermia." The words came out shaky. "And remembering that drowning actually feels peaceful at the end. The body—"
He remained perfectly still, his presence anchoring me more effectively than any safety line. His hand quivered slightly at his side like he wanted to reach for me but didn't know if he should.
"Stay with me here," he said quietly. "Focus on me, not everything else."
I dragged my eyes up to meet his. The intensity there grounded me more effectively than any statistical analysis.
"You're not alone in this."
I nodded once, letting the truth of it sink in. The water no longer was like an enemy waiting to drag me under. It was only water—hydrogen and oxygen in its liquid state, moving according to precise physical laws.
I stayed there for another minute, long enough to prove I could. Then, I stepped back, each movement deliberate until the water merely swirled around my ankles.
Marcus followed, water streaming from his shoulders as he reached for the towel he'd left on the shore. He draped it around my shoulders without comment.
I raised a fist in triumph—raw and unexpected. The water hadn't won. For the first time since hands had forced me under decades ago, I'd chosen to face it on my terms.
Marcus squeezed my shoulder once, then turned to gather his gear. I caught the smile he tried to hide and how he looked at me when he thought I wasn't watching.
***
Later in the morning, the firehouse greeted us with a different kind of heat. It smelled of steel, sweat, and old stories. The place was like a living thing, stitched together by routine and adrenaline, and for the first time, I realized how little I knew about that part of Marcus's life.
Peterson was the first to approach, his grin sharp but his eyes flicking to me with a weight I couldn't ignore. Not judgment, exactly, but something close—an assessment, like he was deciding whether he could trust me filling up space in Marcus's orbit.
His handshake was firm, the kind that said don't screw this up without needing words.
Barrett emerged from the kitchen, tossing Marcus a protein bar that he caught without looking. "Try not to drown, boss."
"That's what the water wings are for." Marcus pocketed the bar.
Finally, Captain Walsh stepped out from his office, his presence cutting through the room with understated authority. His gaze swept over us. He didn't smile, only gave a curt nod before stepping closer.
"Keep your head on straight in Idaho." No platitudes. No sugarcoating.
Marcus nodded, slipping into that version of himself I'd seen at fires before—all sharp edges and quiet focus. When Walsh turned to me, his eyes softened." Watch his back." Simple. Direct. Like an order he stamped on my chest.
As we turned to leave, every gaze followed us. It wasn't with suspicion. It was something fiercer. A silent reminder that Marcus wasn't only mine. He belonged here too, stitched into the lives of the people who would run headlong into a fire for him without a second thought.
When we returned, Michael was waiting in Marcus's apartment, pacing between the kitchen and living room like a caged predator. His SWAT training showed in how he positioned himself—back to the wall, sight lines clear to all entry points.
The air thickened with unspoken agitation the moment we entered.
I exhaled slowly. "You couldn't even pretend to stay out of it?"
Michael's gaze cut toward me, sharp enough to draw blood. "Yeah, that's cute. No."
Marcus dropped his gear bag with a dull thud. "What do you want, Michael?"
"I'm coming with you." Michael's stance widened, shoulders squaring like he was preparing for a tactical breach. "And before you start arguing, remember I've got Ma's number on speed dial."
"We've got it handled."
Michael barked out a harsh laugh. "Handled? Like you handled the gym fire? Or your sabotaged equipment?" He stepped closer, voice dropping. "You don't have shit handled, and you know it."
The tension crackled between them like an electrical fire waiting to flash. Years of brotherhood and stubbornness collided in the space between heartbeats.
I stood there, pulse racing, words caught in my throat like jagged stones. My mind spun with logic and strategies. They were useless against the edgy emotion before me.
Underneath it, something older and more savage stirred. It was the realization that it wasn't only their fight. It was mine, too.
I saw how Marcus's jaw clenched. The space between them was like a chasm growing wider with every word left unsaid.
My heart thudded. I knew I couldn't stand by. Not now.
Before he could say anything else, I stepped in. "Let him come."
Both brothers turned to stare at me.
"James—" Marcus started.
"He's right." I kept my voice steady. "We're not only dealing with an arsonist anymore. This is someone who's studied you for years and who knows how to get inside secure locations. We need every tactical advantage."
Michael's expression shifted slightly—surprise, maybe even respect.
Marcus looked between us, shoulders rigid. Then, he yielded.
"Fine." He grabbed his water bottle from the counter. "But you follow my lead on this."
Michael smirked. "Sure thing, big brother. Right up until you do something stupid."
The familiar bickering almost masked the gravity of what we were planning. Almost. Beneath the surface, we all knew the trip to Idaho wasn't about winning a race.
It was about ending this: one way or another.
***
Night pressed against Marcus's apartment windows, turning them into mirrors that reflected our preparations. I knelt beside Marcus's race bag, intending one final equipment check.
The zipper caught slightly as I pulled it, snagging on something that shouldn't have been there. The small resistance sent warning signals firing through my nervous system.
"Marcus." My voice came out steadier than I expected. "Come here."
He crossed from the kitchen, reading something in my tone that made him move faster. "What is it?"
I didn't answer. Instead, I eased the zipper further, revealing a white envelope nestled between his race bibs and gear. Plain. Unmarked.
My fingers were suddenly numb, but I forced them to move. The envelope's seal parted with a whisper.
Inside was a single photograph. Cold dread settled in my chest. It was Marcus cutting through Lake Washington's waters this morning, captured from an angle that was simultaneously intimate and threatening. Too close. Too precise. The photographer would have been near enough to touch him.
I turned the photo over. The handwriting was elegant, almost artistic in its precision:
"See you at the finish line."
Marcus read it over my shoulder. "Son of a bitch."
"He was there. This morning. At the lake. While we were—" I stopped.
Michael moved from his position by the window, tactical training evident in how he cleared the room's corners with his eyes. "We're not sleeping here tonight."
Marcus hadn't moved. His gaze remained fixed on the photo, something dangerous building in his expression. "No."
"But he could be here—anywhere." I did my best to keep my voice from shaking
"No." Marcus's voice was soft but carried an edge I'd never heard before. "We're not running. Not anymore." He took the photo from my hands, studying it with the same intensity he brought to fire scenes. "He wants to finish this in Coeur d'Alene? Fine. But it ends on our terms."
I watched him, seeing the shift from athlete to tactical commander. It was the same transformation I'd witnessed at countless fire scenes, but this time it was personal.
Michael checked his phone. "Matt and Miles are standing by. Walsh has teams ready to mobilize."
Marcus nodded once, decision made. "Then we give him exactly what he wants. We show up, and I race as planned." His eyes met mine. "And this time, we're ready."
The photograph lay on the coffee table between us, its message both a threat and an invitation.