13. Kane
Chapter 13
Kane
I lean back in my chair, rolling my neck to work out the stiffness from hours hunched over the case files spread across the table. The dim glow of the desk lamp casts jagged shadows over the stacks of reports, each one filled with too many unanswered questions. Another fire. Another structure reduced to ash. And still no solid lead.
The numbers blur together on the report in front of me. I pinch the bridge of my nose, frustration gnawing at me. This case is killing me. Arsonists leave patterns, signatures. They make mistakes. But this bastard? He’s a ghost.
Across from me, Chance stares at his laptop, fingers drumming against the edge of his coffee cup. “We’re missing something,” he mutters, flipping through another page of the case file. “This guy’s not random. He’s careful.” His jaw tightens as he skims through photos. “Same burn pattern, same ignition point. It’s surgical, Kane. This guy doesn’t just start fires—he’s engineering them.”
I exhale hard, tapping my pen against the table. “Which means he’s not some thrill-seeker. He’s controlled, precise. This isn’t about random destruction. He’s sending a message, but what? ”
Chance leans back, rubbing his temple. “Yeah? Well, I’d like to send him one too—with my fist.”
I can’t argue. Every time we think we’re close, he stays one step ahead, leaving nothing but scorched rubble and unanswered questions. The pieces are here. I know they are. But we can’t put them together fast enough.
I drag a hand down my face, frustration clawing at me. “Yeah, and that’s what’s pissing me off. He’s too damn good. No accelerants left behind, no forced entry.”
Chance exhales sharply. “He’s picking targets that don’t make sense on the surface. There’s got to be a pattern.” He taps the file in front of him. “The Cedar Grove warehouse, the yacht, that little bookstore on Main. Different owners, different industries, but…”
“All prime locations for redevelopment,” I finish, my brain working through the connections. “Someone stands to gain a hell of a lot from these places burning down. Maybe this is all about property.”
Chance nods. “Now we just have to figure out who.”
Before I can respond, his phone buzzes. He glances at the screen, brows knitting together as he answers. “This is Carter.” A pause. His whole posture stiffens, his hand tightening around the phone.
I don’t need to hear the other end of the conversation to know it’s bad.
Chance’s face hardens. “Understood. I’m en route.” He ends the call, already pushing to his feet. “There’s been another fire.”
I shove back from the table. “Where?”
His voice is grim. “An apartment complex off Harborview.”
My stomach drops. Harborview. My pulse kicks into overdrive. I know that address. I know exactly who lives there.
“Grace. ”
For half a second, I don’t move. My heart slams against my ribs, my pulse a hard, insistent thud in my ears. Then I’m reaching for my keys, shoving the case files aside like they’re nothing but dead weight.
Chance’s gaze snaps to mine, and he must see something in my face because his expression shifts. “Kane?—”
“Move,” I grit out, already heading for the door.
There’s no hesitation. No second-guessing.
If Grace is in that building, nothing else matters.
I have to get to her. And if she’s hurt—I’ll burn the whole damn world down to find the son of a bitch who did this.
Every second drags like an eternity, stretching out into an unbearable abyss of silence broken only by the roar of the engine and the wail of sirens in the distance. I’m gripping the door handle so hard my knuckles turn white, the burn of tension creeping up my arm, but I can’t force myself to let go. My heart is a war drum, hammering out a frantic beat in my chest, my pulse a relentless throb in my ears.
The streets blur past in streaks of neon and asphalt, but all I see is her—Grace, caught in the middle of this hell storm. Is she inside? Trapped? Hurt? Smoke choking the air from her lungs, flames licking at her skin?
Damn it, no.
I can’t think like that. I won’t.
Chance takes a hard turn, and the tires screech against the pavement. My gut lurches, but I barely register it. “Faster,” I grind out, barely recognizing my own voice. It’s hoarse, guttural, threaded with something raw and unshakable. Fear.
Chance’s jaw tightens. “I’m going as fast as I can, Kane.”
Not fast enough.
My fingers twitch toward my phone, dialing her number over and over again, but it just keeps going to voicemail. Her phone is probably somewhere in her bag, buried beneath a mess of receipts, gum wrappers, and whatever random shit she keeps in there. But…what if she’s trapped, if she’s unconscious—stop.
I dig the heels of my palms into my eyes, forcing my breath to even out, but it’s useless. There’s no controlling the sheer panic roaring through me. I’ve seen too much fire, too many bodies pulled from burned-out buildings, too many lives lost in the time it takes to snap your fingers. The fire at the warehouse had started small, barely a flicker, and within minutes, it had engulfed the entire structure.
A few minutes. That’s all it takes.
I squeeze my eyes shut, picturing her as I last saw her. The tilt of her lips when she’s teasing me, the sharp defiance in her green eyes when I push too hard, the way she tosses her hair over her shoulder like she’s issuing a challenge. She has to be okay. She has to.
Chance barrels down Harborview Drive, weaving through traffic like a man possessed. We take another sharp turn, and I brace against the dashboard. The acrid stench of smoke hits my nose before I even see the flames.
Then we round the last corner.
And my world stops.
The entire complex is an inferno. Flames twist into the night sky, roaring, devouring, thick plumes of black smoke choking out the stars. The heat radiates even from here, searing through the windshield, licking against my skin like a threat.
My stomach plummets.
Fire trucks line the street, water jets slicing through the night, but it’s not enough. The building is going to collapse.
Where the hell is she?
Before Chance fully brakes, I’m throwing the door open, my boots slamming onto the pavement. My eyes scan the crowd, searching—where the hell is she? I push past the barricades, past the gawking bystanders and frantic evacuees. My heart pounds in my ears as I scan the faces, searching, praying.
Ignoring the shouted warnings from responders. “Grace!” My voice is rough and raw. Too much heat. Too much panic.
“Grace!” The name tears from my throat again, desperate, frantic. Too much fire. Too much chaos.
She has to be here. She has to be.
Then I see her.
She’s sitting on the edge of an ambulance, wrapped in a blanket, an oxygen mask covering half her face, her dark hair tangled, soot streaked across one cheek.
But she’s alive.
Relief slams into me so hard I almost drop to my knees. “Grace!”
Her head jerks up at my voice. Those green eyes lock onto mine, and for a moment, the whole damn world stops.
Then she pulls the mask down. “Kane?” Her voice is rough, and it hits me like a fist to the gut. As she looks at me, something in her expression—shock, anger, vulnerability—hits me just as deep.
I cross the space between us in three strides, shoving past a medic. “Are you hurt?” I don’t give a damn about modesty. I reach for her, my hands finding her shoulders before I even realize what I’m doing, my thumbs brushing over her collarbone, needing to know she’s real, that she’s okay.
She shakes her head. “Answer the question, Grace. Are you hurt?”
She hesitates, and that hesitation nearly kills me.
Then she exhales, shaking her head. “No. I was inside when it started. I had just come home from work. The flames were everywhere.” She swallows, her throat working around the words. “I lost everything.”
Her voice catches, and something inside me fractures .
“Miss, you really should keep that mask on a little longer since your…” the medic interrupts.
“I’m fine. Thanks. I’m good.” Grace interrupts him quickly and hands him the oxygen mask.
The shock on his face shows he wants to argue with her, but I shoot him a look that makes him take a step back. “She’s done,” I say, my voice rough.
“If you say so.” The medic wisely backs off.
I don’t think. Don’t analyze. I just pull her in.
Her body stiffens for half a second before she melts against me, her fingers curling into my jacket, gripping me like I’m the only solid thing in the world right now.
I press my lips to the top of her head, inhaling deep, the scent of smoke still clinging to her. “I’ve got you,” I murmur, my voice gravelly, firm. “You’re not alone.”
Her shoulders tremble beneath my hands, and I tighten my grip.
Minutes stretch into an eternity, but I don’t let go, and she doesn’t pull away. But reality crashes back in when Chance approaches.
“The fire is under control,” he says, his gaze flicking between us. “Captain Morgan is already on-site, but Kane, this wasn’t random. Someone wanted this place torched.”
Grace tenses in my arms, and my gut hardens. “Any casualties?” I ask, my voice flat, all business now.
Chance shakes his head. “No serious injuries reported, thank god. But the fire started in a vacant unit. No one’s living there.”
I glance down at Grace. Her hands are still gripping my jacket .
“You’re coming with me,” I say, my voice leaving no room for argument.
Grace blinks. “What?”
“You’re not staying in some hotel, and you’re sure as hell not going to Kate’s. You’re coming with me to my place.”
She pulls back, her brows drawing together. “I—Kane, I don’t?—”
I cup her face, forcing her to meet my gaze. “It’s not a debate, Grace. Someone set this fire. Someone who’s already torched a bunch of other places. I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
She exhales slowly, searching my face like she’s trying to find a reason to fight me on this. But I see it in her eyes. She’s shaken. Exhausted. Scared.
I slide my thumb over her cheek, my voice gentler now. “Let me do this.”
A beat passes. Then another.
Finally, she nods. “Okay.” The word is barely above a whisper, but it hits me like a damn sledgehammer.
And as I lead her away from the wreckage, I make a silent vow.
Whoever did this? Whoever thought they could take her from me?
They’re going to regret ever lighting that match.
I commandeered Chance’s truck. The drive to my place is quiet. Too quiet.
Grace sits curled into the passenger seat, staring out the window, her arms wrapped around her body like she’s trying to hold herself together. The glow from the passing streetlights cast fleeting shadows across her face, highlighting the exhaustion in her features. She doesn’t cry. Doesn’t speak. And that silence is killing me.
I grip the wheel tighter, my jaw clenching as I force myself to focus on the road. My hands are still sore from gripping the door handle too hard on the way to the fire. I haven’t been able to shake the image of the flames devouring her building, the thick smoke in the air, the moment of sheer terror when I thought she might be inside.
She wasn’t, but that doesn’t erase the fact that someone torched her home. Someone wanted her life, anyone’s life, to go up in flames.
And that means she’s staying with me. No arguments. No debate.
We pull up to my house, the headlights sweeping across the darkened porch. It’s a solid, two-story brick home set on the outskirts of town, far enough from the city noise but not so remote that we’d be isolated. It’s been my space for years. My place to come home to after long shifts, my escape from the chaos of my job.
Tonight, it’s her safe haven.
I cut the engine and glance over at her. “We’re here.”
She nods but doesn’t move to get out.
I exhale, unbuckling and stepping out first. The chilly night air bites at my skin, but I barely feel it. Rounding the truck, I open her door, waiting. It takes her a second, but she finally looks up at me, her green eyes wary and exhausted.
I hold out a hand. “Come on, Grace.”
She hesitates, then places her hand in mine. That simple touch sends a rush of something through me, something fierce and right, but I don’t focus on it. Instead, I keep hold of her as I lead her inside.
I flick on the lights, the warm glow spilling over the hardwood floors and the open living room. It’s nothing fancy, just dark leather furniture, a massive TV mounted above the fireplace, and the kind of space that’s meant for living, not just existing.
Grace barely glances around.
I squeeze her hand before letting go. “Come on, I’ll show you where you can crash.”
She follows me up the stairs, her movements slow, like every step is an effort. I open the door to the spare bedroom—one of two guest rooms. This one is comfortable but unused, with neutral tones, a queen-sized bed, a dresser, and an attached bathroom.
“This is yours for as long as you need it,” I tell her. “Bathroom’s through there, extra towels are in the cabinet, and some of my old clothes are in the dresser. If you need anything—” I pause, my voice lowering. “Just knock on my door. I’ll hear you.”
She nods but doesn’t look at me. “Thanks, Kane.” Her voice is quiet, too quiet.
I hate this. I hate seeing her like this. The Grace I know is sharp, fiery, always ready to challenge me with that wicked mouth of hers. This version? The one standing in front of me looking lost? Looking defeated? It guts me.
She turns toward the bathroom, and I force myself to leave, pulling the door halfway closed behind me.
Downstairs, I grab a beer from the fridge but barely drink it. My mind won’t stop replaying the night—the flames, the moment I saw her in the ambulance, the way she looked at me when I pulled her against me. Like I was the only thing keeping her from crumbling.
I text Hudson to let him know she’s safe and to let Kate know. For tonight, Grace needs to rest, to recenter herself.
The sound of the shower running upstairs drags me back to the present. She’s here. She’s safe, and yet, I can’t make myself relax. I stay up, listening. Waiting.
Even after the water shuts off, even after the house falls silent, I stay put, letting the minutes tick by. When the quiet stretches too long, something in my gut tightens.
I push up from the couch and make my way upstairs, stopping outside her door. It’s cracked just enough for me to see inside, to make sure she’s okay.
But she’s not.
She’s curled up on the bed, wearing one of my old t-shirts that hangs off her frame, her knees drawn to her chest. And she’s crying. Silent, body-shaking sobs, her shoulders trembling, her fingers clutching at the blanket like it’s keeping her from falling apart.
I don’t think. I don’t hesitate. I move.
Crossing the room, I ease onto the bed beside her, not saying a word. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t try to push me away when I wrap an arm around her waist and pull her against my chest.
She goes willingly.
My hand slides up her back, fingers brushing through damp strands of her hair as I hold her, as I breathe her in, as I let her feel me—solid, warm, protected…here.
“I’ve got you,” I murmur against the crown of her head.
A broken sound leaves her throat, something between a sob and a sigh, and she buries her face against me, her fingers fisting my shirt.
And just like that, I know.
I’m never letting her go.
This is where she belongs. Right here. With me.