Page 115 of Burning For You

But the lie barely lasted until the trucks rolled into the new development.

The house sat alone on its lot, nothing around it but raw dirt and darkness. A construction shell. A skeleton of what was supposed to be a home in a few months. Ash knew the second he saw it, knew in his bones, that Skye would be here soon.

This house in flames. He’d worked on it himself just last week with Corbin. He knew every exposed beam, every stretch of plywood. The floor plan and what it was going to be.

He knew because it was a Lancaster job.

They were lucky—damn lucky—the hydrants had already been installed on the street, close enough that they could move fast. The hoses were dragged and snapped into place, men shouting over one another as their training kicked in.

He took his position, yanked the lever, and aimed straight for the front of the structure where flames were already clawing their way out.

There were no windows. No doors. Nothing finished.

The house had been scheduled for those openings to be buttoned up this week. Now it was nothing more than fuel.

Lumber and plywood burned hot and fast. The roof caught with a roar, the fire racing across it like it had been waiting for the chance to put on a show.

This blaze hadn’t crept. It hadn’t hesitated.

It had started hard. Deliberate. And designed to destroy.

This wasn’t a coincidence. It wasn’t fate. And it sure as hell wasn’t a sign.

It was a warning.

To Skye. To the Lancasters. To him.

He felt it settle deep in his gut as the flames raged, and he knew, without question, that Skye’s family was going to feel it too.

He fought it until his arms shook, and his lungs burned raw.

Water hammered the structure in relentless sheets, steam billowing back at them in blinding clouds. He adjusted his stance, his boots sinking into the mud, his shoulders screaming as he held the line. The heat was vicious. The bright flames lighting up the sky.

There’d be no calls for backup. There was nothing else around to catch.

Without them here, it’d have burned out in the dirt and mud from the recent rains.

But this house. It was completely lost.

The roof finally gave with a sound like thunder splitting open the night. Sparks shot skyward as it collapsed inward, the flames choking on themselves, starved and furious all at once.

They didn’t let up.

Not until the fire was beaten down to hissing embers and blackened bones on the concrete floor of the basement.

When the call finally came that it was knocked down, he eased back, his chest heaving, sweat freezing almost instantly against his skin. He handed off the hose, peeled his helmet free, and dragged in a breath that tasted like smoke and ash and something bitter underneath.

That was when he looked up.

The crowd had grown while they worked. Flashing lights painted faces in red and blue, silhouettes clustered behind the tape. And there, easy enough to spot, like she always was, stood Skye.

Her arms were wrapped tight around herself, her face pale in the harsh glare, her eyes locked on the ruins of what should have been a house.

Corbin stood at her side, his jaw clenched and every inch of him coiled and ready. Tate was in front of them, working, hands on his hips, scanning the scene and most likely looking for the same thing they all were.

Tate would have known who this house belonged to right now. He would have called his brother.

And Keegan, he stood there too, in uniform, legs slightly apart, his gaze sharp, calculating.