24. Marcus
Chapter twenty-four
Marcus
P ain kept me on the ground. My ribs were on fire, my legs barely responding, and every breath screamed in my lungs. The chaos around me blurred—flashing red and blue lights and wailing sirens cutting through the cacophony of terrified voices. My body begged to shut down and surrender to the exhaustion weighing me down like cement.
Then I heard James’svoice.
Sharp. Alarmed. Cut off.
My head snapped up, instincts overriding pain.
Across the field, near the med tent, James was frozen—a knife at his throat. Elliot.
My vision tunneled, every ounce of remaining strength sharpening into a single, laser-focused point.
James didn’t struggle. He was toosmartfor that. His entire body tensed, muscles locked in a desperate attempt to minimize movement. Elliot’s arm coiled around his neck like a python, the gleam of the blade reflecting harsh floodlights.
A bladecoated in accelerant. I couldsmellit from here.
I forced my legs under me, but my body rebelled. My limbs trembled from exertion, my skin slick with sweat andsomeone else’s blood—maybe mine. None of that mattered now. I pushed up, knees nearly buckling until I stood on shaky feet.
I locked eyes with Elliot. He smiled.
“Look at you,” he called, his voice almostreverentover the distance. “You’re still standing. I knew you’d push past the pain.”
James inhaled sharply as Elliot pressed the knife tighter against his throat.
Michael—where the hell was Michael? Iscannedthe field, barely able to register movement through my fraying vision. He wastoo far. Caught up dealing with first responders and locking down the last of an evacuation of spectators and volunteers.
I was alone. And James had seconds.
Elliot’s grin widened, his fingers tightening around the hilt of the knife. His voice turned almostgentle.
“You push past pain. You push past fire.Show me how far you’ll go.”
He twisted the blade against James’s skin, enough to draw a thinred line. Jamesflinchedbut didn’t make a sound.
I forced myself a step forward, ignoring the agony tearing through my legs. “Let him go.” My voice came out hoarse, scraped raw from breathing in too much smoke.
Elliot tilted his head, considering me. Then his eyeslit up.
“Your father burned,” he murmured. “And I’ll make sure you do, too.”
He moved in onefluid motion—a practiced flick of his wrist slicing through fabric and flesh.
James gasped. A bright line of crimson bloomed on his arm.
Next, Elliot pressed the bladeto James’s shirtand flicked the lighter in his free hand. Fire erupted.
James twisted away with ashout, his shoulder catching fire, the flames licking up his sleeve. Hestaggered back, swiping at it with his free hand, but the accelerant made it spreadfast.
Something inside mesnapped. There was no thought. No hesitation. I moved.
My bodyshouldn’t havebeen capable of it. Every muscle screamed like my ribs weresplintering apart, and my lungs burned, but none of that mattered.
Because James wason fire.
Because Elliot haddone this.
Because I wasgoing to tear him apart.
Ilaunchedat him, crossing the distance in a single heartbeat. Elliot barely had time to turn before my full weightslammedinto him.
Wehit the pavement. Hard.
A solid crack echoed through my skull, but I didn’t care—I wason him, my fists already moving before the pain registered.
Elliotgrunted, twisting beneath me, but I wasbigger, andangrier, andfucking done playing his game.
I swungwildly, without precision, without strategy—brute forcefueled by every ounce of rage I had left. My knuckles cracked against his jaw, splitting skin. Bloodspatteredagainst the pavement.
Elliotsnarled, bringing the knife up fast, too fast. White-hot pain tore through my side.
Ijerked, a guttural noise ripping from my throat, but I caught hiswristbefore he could drive the blade indeeper. Iwrenched his arm back hard enough to make his muscles strain. His grip on the knifetightened, but I had the leverage.
Islammed his wrist against the pavement.
Once.
Twice.
Crack.
His scream washigh-pitched, raw. The knifeclatteredto the ground.
I was breathing hard, my vision swimming from pain and blood loss, but I didn’t let go. Hisbones shifted under my grip, his wrist hanging at an unnatural angle, and still, Elliot’s eyesglowedwith something twisted.
I realized too late—
He had another knife.
His free hand darted for his belt, and a new bladeflashed.
Then James—burned, bloodied James—was there. He ripped the knife from Elliot’s grip and drove it into his thigh.
Elliothowled, his body jerking and head snapping back as raw pain shot through him. His fingersclawed at James and at me, but we had himpinned.
James’s breaths wereshaky, his face twisted in pain, but his grip wassteadyas he twisted the knife.
Elliot’s bodybuckled. The bastard still hadone last move.
He reached for his lighter.
I saw it happening too late.
He wasgoing to ignite himself.
He wanted to burn to make the moment last forever. His fingers flicked the spark wheel—
It was a second too slow. Michael hit him like awrecking ball.
The lighterflewfrom Elliot’s hand, clattering across the pavement as his body snapped sideways. Michael tackled him withfull SWAT force, every ounce of his strength slamming into Elliot’s already battered frame.
The impact was brutal. I heard the air leave Elliot’s lungs in asharp, ugly wheezeas Michaeldrove him into the ground.
He didn’t stop there.
He twisted Elliot’salready brokenwrist behind his back, pressing his weight down, pinning him with the kind ofpracticed precisionthat only came from years of taking down armed men.
Elliotshouted, his body bucking once before he laystill. His chestheaved, and his jaw clenchedso hardI thought his teeth might break, but he didn’t fight anymore.
Michael’s knee pressed harder between his shoulder blades.
“It’s over,” Michael ground out. His voice wascold—a warning, a death sentence, the kind of voice he used right beforepulling the trigger. “You move, and I break the other one.”
Elliotlaughed. Low, wet, choked. His bloodied lips curled, eyes unfocused from the pain.
“You think this is over?” His voice was raspy and raw from screaming. “The fire always comes back.”
Istaggeredto my feet, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
James was stillstanding, but barely. The flame had burned his shirt, his skin blistered, and his left arm was sticky with dryingblood. His hands trembled at his sides, but his eyes—God, his eyes—were locked on Elliot, dark and sharp.
Elliot saw it too. His grin widened, split andbleeding, but his voice came outsoft.
“You felt it, didn’t you?” His gaze flicked to James, somethinghorribleblooming behind his eyes. “Just for a second. You understand now.”
Jamesflinched—so small most wouldn’t have noticed, but I did. I stepped forwardfast, my bodyscreamingin protest, and shoved my boot into Elliot’s ribs.
“Shut the fuck up.”
He grunted, but that damn smile stayed.
Michael’s grip tightened. “I said it’s over.”
Elliottilted his head, gaze shifting to me. “Is it?”
I didn’t have an answer. The weight of everything hit me at once—Elliot,pinned and grinningthrough bloodied teeth, Michael’s kneedigging into his back, his griptight like a vise, and the knife stillburied in Elliot’s thigh, blood pooling beneath him.
James hadn’t moved. He stared at Elliot, expression unreadable.
“James.” My voice was hoarse.
He looked at me for a second. Then, his knees buckled.
Icaught himbefore he hit the ground. His weight slammed into me, his whole bodyshaking. I gritted my teeth against the pain screaming through my ribs andheld on.
Jamesexhaled sharply, his head dropping forward against my shoulder. “Told you I’d save your ass.”
A breath of laughterescaped me. I let my forehead rest against his temple. “Yeah,” I murmured. “You did.”
I heard Michael in the background, barking orders into his radio. More sirenscut through the air, and a second wave of responders arrived. Somewhere, someone was shouting for a medic.
I didn’t let go.
Jameswasn’t burned too badly—not life-threatening, not like it could have been. That didn’t mean it wasn’tbad enough.
His pulsethudded against my palm,too fast and uneven. The shock was settling in, exhaustion creeping past the adrenaline. “Marcus.” His voice waslow, close to my ear. “Is he…”
I didn’t need to ask who he meant. I turned my head to seeElliot still pinned beneath Michael, his chestrising and falling and his grin finallyfadingas the reality of his situationset in.
Alive.
James let out ashuddering breath.
“Good,” he muttered. Then, after a pause—“I want him to rot.”
There was nothing cold in his voice. Nothing hard. Onlytired.
I held onto himtighter.
Medicsrushed in, the roar of their voices muffled against the ringing in my ears. Someone grabbed my shoulder, trying to pull me away.
“Lieutenant, we need to check your injuries—”
“I’m fine.”
I wasn’t, but James needed themmore.
I guided him down to the pavement, my hands stillon him, refusing to let go until the paramedicsforced me to move.
Michael was stillwatching me. His gaze shifted fromJames to Elliot and then back tome. He gave a single nod.
I swallowed against the tightness in my throat and turned back to James.
His head lolled against the medic’s arm, exhaustiondragging him under, but his fingerstwitchedonce, reaching for something. I grabbed his hand, my grip firm.There.Right there.
James’s breathingevened out. The fire was out, but we both knew thescars would stay.