Chapter 11 #2
I look at him. His warm brown eyes are steady. Certain. He's not worried, which suggests either he's extremely good at hiding worry or he genuinely believes that Cassian is going to walk out of that house completely fine.
"He's not going to die," Jett says simply, his voice carrying a certainty that I want to believe in more than I want to breathe. "Not when he's got something worth living for. Not when he's got you."
The words land somewhere in my chest and stick there like they've taken root. They're growing, spreading through my entire body, warming me from the inside. They're also terrifying because they acknowledge something I've been trying not to admit.
I care about Cassian. Deeply. Completely. The kind of caring that makes you vulnerable. The kind of caring that can destroy you if something goes wrong.
A firefighter comes out of the house, their gear covered in soot, their breathing heavy even through the mask. My entire body goes rigid. Is it Cassian? I can't tell. The gear is bulky and anonymous and terrifying. The uncertainty is worse than knowing bad news would be.
It's not Cassian.
"All clear on the first floor," the firefighter calls out to one of the captains. "Kitchen's contained. No other residents on scene."
First floor is clear. That's good. That means the fire is managed. That means one obstacle down.
"What about upstairs?" the captain asks.
"Going in now."
Upstairs. Of course there's an upstairs. Because why wouldn't a burning house have more floors? Why wouldn't Cassian have to go deeper into the danger?
My fingernails are digging into my palms. I'm making fists so tight my hands are shaking. The physical pain is something to focus on. The pain is real and immediate and not about Cassian walking further into a building that's trying to kill him.
Jett notices because Jett notices everything. He takes one of my hands and uncurls my fingers gently, then holds my palm flat against his chest so I can feel his heartbeat. It's there, strong and steady telling me not to worry.
"Breathe," he says quietly. "In through your nose. Out through your mouth."
I try. It's hard when your lungs feel like they're made of concrete and your heart is beating so fast it feels like it might punch its way out of your rib cage and just escape this moment entirely.
More firefighters come out of the house. I hold my breath each time, trying to identify the shape, the height, the way they move. Trying to find Cassian in the haze of smoke and gear and uncertainty.
Still not Cassian.
"Second floor is clear," another firefighter calls out. "Basement sweep in progress."
Basement. Of course there's a basement. Because why would a burning house limit itself to just one or two floors? Because Cassian's job isn't hard enough?
My spiraling is getting worse. My scent is getting sharper. Wildflower and fear mixing with strawberry until I smell like panic made tangible. The smell of an omega in distress. The smell of someone whose alpha is in danger and she can't do anything to help.
That's when it hits me. That's when I realize what I'm feeling.
If he doesn't come out of that house, then I don't come out of this intact.
"He's fine," Jett says again, and there's something in his voice that suggests he's trying to convince himself as much as he's trying to convince me. But his hand is still on mine. His heartbeat is still steady against my palm. He's here. I'm here. We're waiting together.
Then I see him.
Cassian emerges from the smoke like he's walking out of hell itself and deciding he's not particularly impressed by the accommodations.
His gear is covered in soot. His helmet is still firmly on his head.
His movements are steady and controlled.
He's carrying something. A small cat carrier.
The animal inside is meowing, frightened but alive.
He's fine. He's completely fine. He's alive, and he's walking out, and he's carrying a cat like this is just another Tuesday.
And then my legs give out.
Not literally. I'm still standing. All the tension I've been holding, all the fear, all the worst-case scenarios playing out on repeat in my brain.
It releases in a rush that feels like drowning in reverse.
Like I've been underwater and I'm suddenly breaking the surface and remembering how to breathe.
My knees feel weak. My vision gets a little blurry at the edges.
My entire body is shaking with the release of adrenaline that suddenly has nowhere to go.
It's like my body doesn't know what to do with the knowledge that he's safe.
The information doesn't compute. My nervous system has been in crisis mode for so long that peace feels like a foreign concept.
Cassian sees me.
His eyes, those cold gray eyes that I've learned to read over the past few weeks, go soft immediately.
Not gentle. Soft. Like ice that's been warmed by the sun.
Like something hard and protective is melting into something vulnerable.
He hands off the cat carrier to one of the other firefighters without taking his gaze off me, and then he's walking toward us.
Toward me. Moving with purpose and intention.
I watch him approach and something in my chest cracks open. Actually cracks. I can feel it happening. The walls I've been building around my heart since he first showed up at Savannah's place are crumbling like they were never real in the first place.
"Sharon," he says, and my name on his lips sounds like an apology and a promise and a question all at once. Like he's sorry for scaring me. Like he's promising he's okay. Like he's asking if I am.
I don't say anything. I can't say anything. My throat is too tight. My chest is too full. My entire body is vibrating with emotions I don't have words for.
I walk toward him, my legs unsteady, my entire being trembling, and when I reach him, I'm not sure if I'm going to hit him or hug him or do both simultaneously.
I hug him.
My arms wrap around his neck, around the hard edges of his firefighter gear, and I'm pressing my face against the soot-covered fabric of his shirt.
He smells like smoke and ash and something burning and underneath it all, beneath all the chaos and danger, he smells like Cassian. Like home. Like safety.
And I'm breathing him in, and my eyes are burning, and my throat is tight, and my entire body is shaking because he's alive. He's actually alive. He came out of that house, and he's standing here with me, and he's breathing, and his heart is beating, and he didn't leave me behind.
"You scared me," I whisper against his chest, and I can feel his heartbeat there. Fast but steady. Racing but not weak. The heartbeat of someone who just came through something terrible and is grateful to still be on the other side of it.
His hands come up and they're cradling my back, holding me against him like I might disappear if he lets go. "I'm okay," he says, his voice low and rough. His voice sounds like he's just been screaming. "I'm right here. I'm okay."
But he wasn't okay. He was in a burning building. He was in danger. He was doing the thing he does, running toward the danger while everyone else runs away, and I was out here losing my mind.
"You could have died," I say, and now the tears are coming.
Actually coming. Hot and fast and uncontrollable, running down my cheeks and mixing with the soot on his gear.
I'm pressing my face against his chest, and I'm crying like I'm trying to release something that's been building up inside me for weeks.
"You could have been in there, and something could have gone wrong, and I would have had to stand out here and wait and not know if you were coming back out, and you could have died. "
Cassian pulls back and throws off his gloves then he looks at me, and his hands come up to cup my face.
His gloved palms are gentle despite the heavy gear he's wearing.
His thumbs trace my cheekbones, wiping away tears and smearing soot.
His scent is shifting. Darkening. The smoke and leather becoming something sharper, something more intense.
The scent of an alpha who just realized that someone matters enough to scare him.
Someone matters so much that losing her would break something in him that couldn't be repaired.
"I'm not dead," he says quietly. His gray eyes are focused entirely on me, like I'm the only thing in the world that exists right now.
Like the fire trucks and the smoke and his crew and the neighbors watching from their yards don't exist anymore.
Like there's only me and him and this moment.
"I'm right here. I'm okay. You're okay."
"You're covered in soot," I say, and the words are stupid and irrelevant and completely what my brain decides to focus on when everything else feels too overwhelming.
"I know," he says, and there's almost a smile there. Like he knows I'm saying random things because I'm falling apart. Like he understands that I need to say something that doesn't matter because saying something that does matter would break me completely.
"And I'm getting soot all over myself because I'm hugging you," I continue, because my mouth is apparently not receiving signals from my brain right now.
"I don't care," he says, and he means it. I can hear it in his voice. He doesn't care that I'm getting dirty. He doesn't care that we're standing in the middle of Maple Street with an audience. He doesn't care about anything except that I'm here and I'm touching him and he can feel that I'm real.
His forehead is inches from mine. His hands are still on my face, and his scent is wrapping around me like smoke.
Dark and intense and something that makes my omega brain go quiet.
This is an alpha who just came through danger, but he's looking at me like I matter more than the danger he just faced. Like I matter more than anything.