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Malachi had been so entranced by the fire that he hadn’t seen the two firefighters outside the warehouse until one of them had spotted him inside the window. Shame flooded his face now at the memory, lasting for only a heartbeat before being replaced by anger. Firefighters were supposed to let abandoned warehouses like this one burn, and he’d ducked out of sight quickly enough that the female firefighter hadn’t seen him. He’d been sure of it.
But then he’d risked a look to be sure, and the firefighters were coming in. They weren’tsupposedto come in! He’d had to run, taking the exit path he’d planned at the beginning and slipping out the back door he’d left propped open, then letting it slam shut to erase any sign that he’d been there. And now, he watched as they worked to put out the fire, drowning the life he’d created.
His plan had been ruined.
Stupid, stupid boy, his father’s voice echoed in his head, and Malachi covered his ears with his hands, blocking it out. He wasn’t a boy, for one. He was twenty-three, and he’d lived without his father for eight years, taking care of his mother in a way the old fucker had never done. Malachi had paid for their groceries, the electric bill. Then, when she’d gotten too sick to work, he’d taken on double shifts at the docks and paid their rent, too. The urge to start fires, to watch things burn to the ground, had been dormant then, for so long that Malachi was sure he’d gotten past it. He’d fought it for years, that provocative whisper telling him to make things burn. He didn’t want to be like his father. But then the medical bills had slid out of control so fast, and in the end, he hadn’t been able to save his mother. The urge had returned then, and he hadn’t been able to fight it.
Weak, his father hissed, and he shifted in the underbrush, thorns from a nearby bush snagging on his threadbare jean jacket.
“Oh, but the joke’s on you, old man,” Malachi murmured, his lips curling into a bitter smile as he pulled himself free from the thorny branch, and oh, the irony was real. After all, Malachiwasfree. He’d never been hampered by concrete walls and razor wire. He may have tried to fight the urge at first, but he’d never beenforcedto. He was right here, living out the birthright he’d once hated, but that his father loved more than anything in the world. And once his plan was complete, his father would know thathe’dbeen the one to burn all the things the old man had left standing as he’d rotted away in prison. That the fires Malachi would create would burn so bright and so hot that they’d leave him reborn and pure, like a phoenix in the ashes, while his father was the weak one, unable to strike so much as a single match.
Sadly, it wouldn’t kill the tough old bastard. But Malachi would settle for delivering the knowledge that he, not his father, had been the one to complete the jobs his father had left behind. Malachi was the mastermind. The one with all the power.
Although, he hadn’t done those things yet. The warehouse hadn’t burned—not completely, the way he’d planned. Thanks to those two fucking firefighters rushing in when they weren’t supposed to, the whole thing had unraveled. The rest of their crew had been ordered to break the usual protocol and start putting out the flames, buying the two who had gone inside more safety from the spreading flames.
He watched, his gut twisting as the flames smoldered, stuttering into gray-black billows of smoke. The fire needed to consumeeverything, leaving behind nothing but ashes, in order to matter. Halfway wasn’t enough. If only those hose draggers hadn’t come in and messed with his plan, he’d have burned this warehouse to the ground as he’d planned.
Malachi tore his eyes from the building, scanning the group of firefighters in search of a target for his anger. His gaze snagged on the firefighter who had seen him in the window, the one who had ruined everything by rushing inside. Thearroganceof someone who thought he could save a person once fire decided to claim them was bad enough, but this man, with his chin lifted in defiance and his shoulders set like stone, was brimming with it.
Malachi took the man in, committing his features to memory. Tall, mid-thirties. White, with dark red hair and maybe a day’s worth of stubble to match. Muscular frame. His mouth bracketed by a serious frown. The firefighter with him looked furious, too, taking the man’s coat and slinging it over his arm.
S. Faurier.
The reflective letters flashed in the sunlight, branding their way into Malachi’s brain as he looked back at the warehouse. He couldn’t let this stand. The things he set on fire had to burn to completion, otherwise he’d failed.
And Malachi wouldnotfail.
He’d simply have to start again.
* * *
Lucy lookedout the rear passenger-side window of Captain Bridges’s Suburban and wished she was literally anywhere else on earth—including the burning warehouse they’d just left in the rearview. The twenty minutes it had taken Faurier to let Quinn patch him up had done damn little to ease the steady slam of adrenaline in her veins, and she channeled her effort into box breathing, partly so she wouldn’t fry her motherboard and partly so she wouldn’t commit murder, right there in her captain’s back seat. Yes, she’d been the one to follow Faurier into the warehouse (inhale, two, three, four), and yes again, she possessed free will and the ability to do effective risk assessment in shitastic situations (exhale, two, three, four, five, six). No one hadforcedher to break rank to have Faurier’s back. But come on! He’d put her in a no-win situation when he’d decided to chuck the rules into a fucking woodchipper and run into that building against orders. Her only two choices had been to disobey Captain Bridges in order to keep to the code of doing everything in pairs, or stand down and let Faurier potentially get killed because he’d gone all commando, party of one, and no one had been watching his six.
On second thought, would a juryreallyconvict if Lucy murdered him, just a little bit?
Letting out a slow exhale, she watched the buildings fly by outside her window. The tension in the car was palpable enough that she could practically make sculpture with it, the silence pressing against her ears in between each heartbeat. Lucy knew better than to fuck things up further by speaking until she was spoken to, though, and thankfully, Faurier had gotten the memo, too. He sat next to her silently, his face devoid of its usual cocky smirk and his hands folded in his lap. He stared straight ahead, his shoulders pulled tight and his jaw even tighter, and suddenly, Lucy became keenly aware of exactly howmuchof the backseat’s real estate he was taking up. How the left heel of his boot seemed to be tapping, his knee prompting the rapid-fire movement so slightly she’d nearly missed it—and she’d been trained to see even minute details. How his ginger hair, turned dark red with sweat from the fire, curled just a little bit over his ears because he was overdue for a haircut. How close the outside of his right knee was to her left, only the barest millimeter of space keeping them from touching, how even through her bunker pants and his, she could feel the heat of him, so close—
Realization hit her like a bucket of ice water, and okay, that was it. She’d officially lost her mind. The only thing she did less than break the rules was lust after other firefighters. Sure, she’d learned to trust them to have her back. That was part of the job. But trusting one of them with her body? Her reputation? Herheart?
Hard fucking pass. She’d already been burned on that road, and it had nearly cost her everything.
She’d never go there again.
Steeling her spine against the back seat of the Suburban and shifting a few full inches closer to the rear passenger door, Lucy shook off her stupid thoughts, once and for all. So Sam Faurier was hot. So what? He was also the cockiest man alive, and his actions had landed her up to her eye teeth in trouble. She’d own the decision she’d made to follow him into that warehouse, along with all the censure it would bring from Captain Bridges. But she wasn’t going to stop being mad at Faurier—or his stupid, sexy shoulders—for a long time.
The rest of the trip to the fire house passed in a blur of passing cars and deep breaths. Captain Bridges pulled into the wide driveway leading to the engine bay, and Lucy’s gaze caught on a familiar vehicle parked to the side. She took in the RFD crest, the red and gold stripes painted down the side, the words “Battalion Chief” emblazoned on the front quarter panel, impossible to miss, and wait…wait…
Oh,God.
“My father is here?” she blurted, unable to mute her shock. As a rule, firefighters weren’t allowed to work under the command of a family member, be it a parent, a spouse, or a sibling, and that went all the way up the chain, from lieutenant to captain to chief. But even though Station Seventeen was in Remington’s third district and her father was the battalion chief for District Nine, he still commanded a massive amount of respect with all the firefighters in the city. He might not technically have any control over her career—good, bad, or in between—but he still outranked the ever-loving hell out of her, her lieutenant,andher captain. Not to mention, he was the reason Lucy had become a firefighter. The bearer of her legacy. The driving influence in every step of her career.
Which meant that whatever trouble Lucy hadthoughtshe’d gotten herself into had just tripled.
“Yes,” Bridges said, the one syllable thudding between them like a bowling ball rolling down a gutter. The adrenaline she’d just ushered from her system made a roaring comeback, and she felt like someone had reached in and snatched all the oxygen from her lungs. Digging down deep, she called on her training to force in a breath, counting her heartbeats in an effort to slow them down. Captain Bridges pulled into the engine bay, saying only, “let’s go,” before exiting the vehicle and waiting for them both to do the same. Lucy didn’t look at Faurier, even though she could feel his eyes on her. She reached for the door handle, staring straight ahead as she got out and followed Captain Bridges through the engine bay, then into the fire house, past the common room and down the long hallway that led toward the office.
“Captain Bridges.” Their house manager, January Donnelly, stood in the doorway as if she’d been waiting for them, her usual easygoing smile replaced by a serious nod, and oh,hell. “Chief de Costa is waiting in your office.”
“Thank you.” He turned to Lucy and Faurier. “Wait here while I have a word with the chief.”
