7 - Thea
Thea
I STUMBLE INTO the small alcove off the path, my hands scraping rough against the sandstone. My legs shake, barely holding me up after running away from my car, away from the thunder of Kilian Rutherford’s order.
The air in here, even sheltered by the overhang and a cluster of shrubs, carries the smoke still. The wind howls past, blowing most of the smoke sideways, away from my hollow, but enough stays that my eyes sting and water. I tell myself that’s the only reason they’re watering.
It’s not completely dark yet. The sky’s just about to turn gray, and the fire makes unsteady shadows dance on the ground.
I turn my head, looking back through the smoky haze. My car’s some yards away. Farther out, the glow of the fire pulses brighter, small still but eating past where it was a minute ago.
My fingers press into the rock as I look at him. Kilian Rutherford, barreling through the fire. With a quick yank, he tears off his leather jacket, exposing the hard muscles of his arms where black tattoos pop out in the flickering light.
His movements are pure reflex; I can tell. No pause for doubt, as if he’s faced worse a hundred times before. He grips the jacket like a club, slamming it down on the flames. The crack is sharp and loud. Embers split upward, hang for a moment, then die. Then he pulls back and swings again.
The smoke swirls thicker around him, but it can’t hide the strain pulling his body tight with each strike. He’s a machine made of flesh, each swing crushing the fire before it spreads.
He’s not running, like what I’ve considered doing. He’s attacking… fighting.
My chest squeezes, a weird strain I can’t shake, as I watch him pivot and hammer again and again. The fire fights back, flames licking at the ground near his feet, but he continues.
He drops to one knee, boots grinding into the earth with a crunch.
His gloved hand scoops the dirt, dumping fistfuls over the smaller flames to smother them.
Then he’s up again, kicking hard, dragging more earth over the blaze in a rhythm that doesn’t break—the swing of his jacket, the scrape of his boots, the fast dig of his hand forcing the fire to give up—over and over, relentless, while the fire keeps fighting back.
The forest is restless around him. The trees sway with the wind.
I can almost feel it teasing the flames, daring them to catch and burn.
Smoke wraps thicker around him, and he coughs a few times, but he doesn’t stop.
Sweat streaks down his face, his neck, soaking his gray shirt until it clings, outlining every muscle.
I can’t stop staring.
I press my palms harder into the sandstone; the small sting is the only thing keeping me inside my own body right now, because there is warmth creeping up my face that I don’t want to feel.
What am I even doing, staring at him like this? There’s a fire. A literal crisis is happening right in front of me, and here I am, staring at the way a man moves.
I bite down on my lip, hard enough to feel it.
Pull it together, Thea. He’s the reason I’m out here in the first place.
I’m just rattled and shaky, that’s all. I take a slow, scraping breath, forcing my mind to the rational part of my head.
The part that shouldn’t be getting all worked up watching a man beat down flames with bare hands.
But… watching him fight the blaze, I can’t deny, it chips at the certainty a little.
He’s not slowing down, not even as another cough rips out of him. His chest heaves as he swings the jacket down again and again until finally he’s putting out the last remaining sparks.
His boot stomps the ground again, covering the last ember until only smoke rises off the ground while he stands there, making sure it’s out.
I’m still zeroed in on him when his head turns, scanning the tree line, the dark spaces between trees. Searching.
A jolt that moves through me is not entirely panic, and I don’t have anything useful to do with that information right now.
I’m not wrong about him. I can’t be. People who hurt others can wear masks too. They can fight fires… save towns. Doesn’t mean they’re safe behind closed doors.
I nod to myself, as if that locks the thought in place, but it feels shaky. The crack in my certainty is wider now, but I press my hands over my chest and hold it together. If I’m right, this doesn’t change a thing. If I’m wrong…
I don’t get to finish the thought. Kilian covers the distance in a few long strides, and then he’s right there, standing in front of me, sweat and smoke and all of it, chest still rising and falling hard from the effort.
“What the hell are you doing here?”