Chapter 3
three
. . .
Connie
The emergency room buzzes around me, a blur of scrubs and beeping machines.
My lungs still burn with each breath, but the oxygen mask is gone now, replaced by a nasal cannula that tickles my nostrils.
I'm alive, which seems miraculous considering the inferno I just escaped.
But what's even more unbelievable is that he's still here—the mountain of a man who carried me from the flames.
Dagger. He stands like a sentinel at the foot of my bed, arms crossed over his massive chest, those blue eyes never leaving my face.
"You don't have to stay," I say for the third time, my voice still raspy from smoke inhalation. "I'm sure you have other... firefighter things to do."
Firefighter things? God, I sound like an idiot. But his intensity scrambles my thoughts, makes forming coherent sentences nearly impossible.
"I'm where I need to be," he answers, the deep rumble of his voice sending shivers down my spine that have nothing to do with shock or exposure.
He's changed out of his gear into FDNY sweats and a t-shirt that strains across his shoulders. Despite the casual clothes, he looks no less imposing. No less like a force of nature contained in human form.
A nurse bustles in, checking my vitals with practiced efficiency. "Blood oxygen is improving," she says cheerfully. "Doctor will be in soon to discuss discharge."
"Discharge?" I repeat, the word triggering a wave of panic.
Discharge to where? My apartment is gone.
My clothes, my teaching materials, my life—all up in smoke.
The teddy bear I'd clutched during the rescue sits on the bedside table, its fur singed but intact.
It might be the only possession I have left.
The nurse mistakes my panic for relief. "Yes, you're doing well enough to go home. Just minor smoke inhalation."
Home. The word echoes hollowly.
"She doesn't have a home anymore," Dagger says, his voice tight. It's the first time he's spoken to anyone but me since we arrived. "Her apartment was destroyed in the fire."
The nurse's smile falters. "Oh, I'm sorry. Do you have family locally? Someone you can stay with?"
I shake my head. "My parents are in Ohio. I don't really know anyone here yet." Four months in New York, and I've been too busy setting up my classroom and apartment to make close friends. The irony isn't lost on me—I finally achieve independence, only to lose everything.
"The Red Cross has temporary housing options," the nurse offers, but her voice sounds distant beneath the rushing in my ears.
"She's coming with me."
Dagger's declaration cuts through my spiraling thoughts. His tone brooks no argument, as if it's already decided. My head snaps up to meet his gaze.
"What? No, I couldn't possibly—"
"You need somewhere to stay. I have room." His eyes soften fractionally. "It's safe."
The way he says "safe" makes my stomach flip, like he's offering more than just four walls and a roof. Like he's offering himself as a human shield between me and the world.
"But you don't even know me," I protest weakly.
Something dangerous flashes in his eyes. "I know enough."
The doctor arrives before I can respond, a harried-looking woman with kind eyes who confirms I'm well enough to leave. She prescribes rest, fluids, and follow-up with my primary care physician in a week.
"Do you have any questions?" she asks, already edging toward the door, clearly needed elsewhere.
I have a thousand questions, but none she can answer.
Why does this stranger's presence make me feel both terrified and protected?
Why can't I stop staring at his hands, wondering how they'd feel against my skin without the barrier of fire gear?
Why am I considering going home with a man I just met, when everything I've ever been taught screams that it's dangerous?
"No questions," I whisper.
She leaves, and then it's just us again—me in a hospital gown that gaps embarrassingly across my chest, him standing like he's prepared to catch me if I so much as sway.
"I should call a hotel," I say, reaching for the hospital phone.
His hand engulfs mine before I can lift the receiver. "No."
Just that. One word, but weighted with such authority that my protest dies on my lips.
"Look," I try again, "I appreciate everything you've done. You saved my life. But you don't owe me anything else. Your job is done."
His jaw tightens. "This isn't about the job."
"Then what is it about?" I challenge, finding a shred of backbone.
He steps closer, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. "You know what it's about."
And strangely, I do. I feel it too—this inexplicable connection, this sense that the universe shifted when he carried me from the fire. But it doesn't make logical sense. These things don't happen in real life. Men who look like him don't fixate on women who look like me.
"I don't have clothes," I say, grasping at practicalities. "Or toiletries. Or anything."
"I'll take care of it." Three more words, equally definitive.
The nurse returns with discharge papers and a set of hospital scrubs for me to wear home. Dagger steps outside while I change, but his presence looms even in his absence.
The scrubs hang on my frame, designed for someone taller and less curvy.
I catch my reflection in the small bathroom mirror and wince.
My hair is a disaster, my face smudged with soot despite the nurse's attempts to clean it.
I look exactly like what I am—a woman who just escaped a burning building.
When I emerge, Dagger's eyes sweep over me, and to my shock, what I see isn't pity or clinical assessment. It's heat. Pure, masculine appreciation that makes my cheeks flush.
"Ready?" he asks.
No. I'm not ready for any of this. But I nod anyway.
He guides me through the hospital with a hand at the small of my back, his touch gentle but possessive. A firefighter in the waiting room calls out to him, but Dagger merely nods in acknowledgment, never slowing his stride or removing his hand from my back.
Outside, dawn has broken, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold that seem obscenely beautiful after the night's horror. Dagger leads me to a truck parked in the emergency lane—clearly breaking several parking regulations, but no one has ticketed or towed the firefighter's vehicle.
He helps me into the passenger seat like I'm made of glass, his hands lingering for a heartbeat longer than necessary. The interior of the truck is surprisingly clean, smelling of pine and something uniquely him.
We drive in silence. I should be terrified—going home with a stranger, no matter how heroic, is objectively dangerous. Instead, I feel a strange calm. Whether it's shock or something deeper, I can't say.
"Where do you live?" I finally ask as we cross into Brooklyn.
"Red Hook," he answers, eyes on the road. "Near the water."
He doesn't elaborate, and I don't push. The exhaustion of the night is catching up with me, making my eyelids heavy despite the surreal circumstances. I must doze off, because the next thing I know, we're pulling into a parking spot outside a converted warehouse.
"We're here," he says, his voice gentler than before.
I follow him into the building, up three flights of stairs, and down a hallway to a heavy steel door.
His apartment is exactly what I'd expect from someone like him—spartan but not sterile.
Exposed brick walls, high ceilings, minimalist furniture that looks chosen for function rather than style.
It's unmistakably masculine, yet not unwelcoming.
"Bathroom's through there," he says, gesturing to a door. "You should shower. I'll find you something to wear."
The suggestion of being naked in his space sends a jolt through me. "I can't just... stay here," I say, finding my voice at last. "This is crazy. We don't know each other. I appreciate the rescue—more than I can say—but this is too much. I should go to a hotel, or call the Red Cross, or—"
I don't finish the sentence, because suddenly he's right there, crowding into my space, one large hand cupping my jaw. His touch is gentle but insistent, tilting my face up to his.
"You're staying with me, baby. Where it's safe."
The endearment—so unexpected, so intimate—steals my breath. Before I can process it, his mouth is on mine.
The kiss obliterates thought. His lips are firm but surprisingly soft, moving against mine with practiced confidence. It's not a tentative first kiss. It's a claiming. A branding. His tongue traces the seam of my lips, demanding entry, and I grant it without hesitation.
He tastes like smoke and something darker, richer—something uniquely him. His hand slides from my jaw to the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair, cradling my head like I'm precious. His other arm wraps around my waist, drawing me against the solid wall of his chest.
I should push him away. I should be outraged at his presumption. Instead, my hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer. A small, needy sound escapes me—half whimper, half moan.
The kiss deepens, turns hungry. The arm around my waist tightens, lifting me slightly so our bodies align more perfectly. Even through the shapeless scrubs, I feel the hard ridge of his arousal pressing against my stomach. The evidence of his desire for me—for me—is as shocking as it is thrilling.
When he finally breaks the kiss, we're both breathing hard. His eyes have darkened to midnight blue, pupils dilated with want. He doesn't step back, keeping me pressed against him, his hand still tangled in my hair.
"Any more arguments?" he asks, his voice rough with need.
I should have a thousand. But looking up at him—this man who walked through fire to save me, who's looking at me like I'm everything he's ever wanted—I can't form a single coherent objection.
"No," I whisper, the fight going out of me. "No more arguments."
Something like satisfaction flashes across his face. He presses one more firm kiss to my lips, then releases me reluctantly.
"Shower," he says. "I'll find you clothes. Then food. Then rest."
The simple commands should annoy me. Instead, they provide a framework when everything else has collapsed. Clean. Dress. Eat. Sleep. I can do that.
As I turn toward the bathroom, his voice stops me once more.
"Connie."
I look back at him, this stranger who doesn't feel like a stranger.
"You're safe now." He says it like a promise. Like a vow.
And despite everything logical, everything reasonable, everything I should be feeling—I believe him completely.