Page 42 of Sizzling Desire

My brain short-circuits.

Love?

Whatthe hell is that supposed to mean?

For the first time ever, I havenocomeback.

Kane watches me for another beat, like he knows exactly how much he just rattled me, then steps back, grabbing his coffee from the counter.

He turns to leave, and I should let him go. Ishouldn’twatch him walk away. Ishouldn’tbe frozen in place, my heart slamming against my ribs like it doesn’t know who the hell it belongs to anymore.

But I do.

I watch the way he moves, all effortless confidence and quiet power, and I hate that I can’t look away.

I hate that I feel this.

Because it’s not anger.

Not irritation.

Not frustration.

It’s something far more dangerous.

And for the first time, I can’t tell if Iwantto run?—

Or if I want him to catch me.

Chapter 13

Kane

Ilean 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.”

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