Surrendering to His Siren (Silver Spoon Heroes)

Chapter One

Nina

I 'm going to die in a bathroom.

It's a grim realization. But as the water in said bathroom trickles to a stop, preventing me from soaking more of the room to protect myself, and the roar of the flames creeping closer grows louder, it's the only thing I can think.

I'm going to die in a bathroom with garish, peeling wallpaper from the 1970s and a toilet seat with shag carpeting.

And I'm pretty sure my little brother, Nate, started the fire that's going to take me out.

"Dammit, Nina, think," I whisper to myself, trying desperately not to panic as smoke slips through cracks in the door despite the dusty old towels I shoved under it to try to save myself.

I frantically look around, searching for a way out…but there isn't one. My curvy ass is too big—and too short—to fit through the tiny window strategically placed in the shower for optimal perving. Seriously, whoever came up with in-shower windows was foul. Even if I could squeeze through the small rectangle of glass, I'm pretty sure it was painted shut before I was even born.

I press a wet towel to my face, shivering. Everything in the bathroom is drenched—me included—but wetting everything down isn't going to be enough to save me from the fire currently raging through the home where I grew up. Especially since the fire just cut the flow of water to the bathroom. The inch of water I'm standing in, and the overflowing tub is all I get.

Does it hurt to die in a fire? I'm not sure.

But it's definitely going to hurt my seventeen-year-old brother when my ghost catches up with him after the fact. I told him to stop worrying and let me handle everything. He didn't listen. When he started talking about desperate times requiring desperate measures, I knew he was up to something.

I didn't expect arson, however.

Did he even check the house before he set it on fire?

Ha! Do I even need to ask? The fact that I'm trapped in the bathroom is answer enough, isn't it? Of course, he didn't. He panicked. Mobsters have a way of eliciting that kind of reaction from scared kids.

Our father died recently, leaving behind an ungodly amount of unpaid gambling debt. We barely had a chance to bury him before the men he owed started following me around town, demanding payment. I don't make the kind of money they want. I'm a teacher, for crying out loud! And raising Nate on my own hasn't been easy since I took custody of him when I was eighteen.

I planned to convince my father's bookies to give me enough time to sell his house. It wouldn't cover everything he owed, but it'd be a start. And then Nate saw the insurance paperwork on the house while we were cleaning it out.

Long story short, I guess he thought committing a felony to save our lives was the logical solution. Spoiler Alert: It wasn't.

Now, I'm going to die, and he's probably going to prison.

The smoke in the room grows denser, burning my eyes. I choke, inhaling shallow breaths into the towel as my fresh air supply rapidly dwindles. Maybe it won't be the fire that kills me. It'll be the smoke.

Is that a better option? I don't know. Probably not.

How the hell did he start a fire that raged out of control this fast? I was packing up the attic when I smelled smoke. I tried to get out, but by the time I made it to the top of the stairs, the entire first floor was on fire, and it was spreading fast. I tried to get to a bedroom window to crawl out, but couldn't get to it.

Nate was right about one thing. Desperate times call for desperate measures. I ran into the bathroom when the bedroom went up in flames. I figured maybe water would save me. Clearly, I was wrong.

It's already getting hard to breathe.

I search around for something to try to break the window in the shower to buy myself as much fresh air as possible for as long as possible. My heart pounds, anxiety churning through me. I'm terrified out of my freaking mind, but I don't have time to panic.

If I freak out, I die. If I curl up in a ball, I die.

"I'd really like to not die, Baby Jesus. I have cheesecake in the fridge. And I haven't even finished my book yet," I whisper, dropping to my knees on the floor to rummage through the cabinet. My hand closes around a piece of unattached pipe. "Aha!"

I nearly sob with relief. I don't know if it's a match for the window, but it's long and sturdy.

Time to break shit.

"Please work. Please work." I practically dive for the shower, grunting when I bang my hip against the side of the tub. Pain radiates through me, but I ignore it, dropping my towel into the overflowing water I ran in a last-ditch effort to save myself.

I claw my way to my feet, flailing and splashing. Choking.

I lift the pipe over my head, smashing it against the window as hard as I can.

It glances off the glass, leaving nothing but a tiny chip behind.

I sob in frustration and smack it again, harder this time.

The force of the blow reverberates up my arm, and I nearly drop the pipe. But the window cracks.

"Please, please," I gasp, aiming the pipe to hit it again. My head swims, my lungs burning with the need to breathe. My eyes sting and burn.

I swing the pipe again anyway, screaming in fury.

"Don't!" Someone grabs my arm, yanking me backward.

I squeal in shock…and promptly lose my footing, landing on my ass in the water with a splash. And I don't go alone. The man who grabbed me slips too, falling halfway over the tub in full firefighter gear.

Our eyes meet through his mask and the thick smoke, and I inhale a sharp breath. He has the clearest jade green eyes I've ever seen.

"Fire moves faster with air."

"What?" I choke out.

"Breaking the window will feed the fire," he says, and then his brows furrow. "Were you taking a fucking bath?"

"I…what?" I blink at him, my mind hazy. He's not making any sense. Maybe I've inhaled too much smoke? Probably. God, it hurts to breathe.

"Never mind. We gotta get the fuck out of here."

Yes. Good plan. I like this plan.

Naturally, even in full gear, he manages to rise to his feet gracefully. All I manage to do is choke and gasp. Dying hurts. It hurts a lot.

The firefighter mutters something I can't make out and hauls me to my feet, his thick black gloves ridiculously large against my waist.

Everything about him is ridiculously large, actually. Standing up, he towers over me. And I don't think it's his turnouts that has him looking like a freaking burly giant. I'm pretty sure that's just him.

"Put this on." He works quickly, slipping a little mask on my face while I sway on my feet at his side, trying to stay upright. Spots swim in my field of vision…and then a blast of oxygen hits me in the face.

I greedily inhale it, grabbing the little tank thing he hands me. And promptly choke on the oxygen.

"Slow, baby," he murmurs, his voice a gentle rumble. "Take slow, deep breaths. You've inhaled a lot of smoke."

I nod, letting him know I hear him. Not entirely sure I plan to obey because it's the first fresh air I've had in what feels like centuries. But I hear him.

"My crew has us a path out of here," he says. "I'm going to pick you up, and, then we're going to run like hell. I want you to keep using that to breathe and keep your eyes closed."

"Why?" I gasp.

"Because I don't want you freaking the hell out on me when you see what we're running through."

Well…that's fair enough, I guess.

"Can't carry me," I mumble, inhaling another big gulp of oxygen. "Too heavy."

He snorts, one dark brow climbing. He is freaking gorgeous. Or maybe I'm delirious? "I could carry you all day, Red." He chuckles at me. "You'll be the sweetest thing I've ever carried out of a fire."

Yep…he's definitely gorgeous. Especially with that wicked laugh and those jade eyes. I thought they only made firefighters like him in movies. In real life, they're not supposed to be nearly as sexy as this man. I thought they were mostly middle-aged volunteers. From what I can tell, he's maybe thirty, and I don't think he's a volunteer-anything.

"You got enough air not to pass out on me?" he asks as I stare up at him, dazed.

I nod silently.

"Good girl."

He's been in the room with me for maybe ninety seconds—way too long given the situation but not nearly long enough for my stomach to be fluttering the way it is.

A second later, he hauls me into his arms, lifting me like I don't weigh nearly as much as my arch-nemesis, the scale, says I do.

"Here. Cover your face with this and close your eyes." He scoops up one of the wet towels with a gloved hand and drapes it over the mask he placed over my nose and mouth. "Keep your mask on."

My heart pounds like a drum against my ribcage. I think I'm more afraid now than I've been at any point since I saw flames. We have to go out there—into the freaking fire. And I highly doubt it's gotten better in the last ten minutes. If it was hell then, it's probably whatever comes after hell now.

If I survive, I may kill my brother.

"Your name," I say, grasping the firefighter's arm. If I'm going to die, I'd really like to know who I'm taking with me to the other side. I'll haunt Nate for him, too.

"Emmett," he murmurs. "My name is Emmett Madden."

Jesus. Even his name is sexy.

"What's yours?"

"Nina," I whisper. "Nina Gregori."

"Close your eyes, Nina. We're getting the fuck out of here now."

I inhale a tiny breath, trying not to choke on smoke and fear, and slam my eyes closed.