Page 106 of Controlled Burn
For one hot second she wanted to rip the locker door off its hinges, to tear through the bay and smash the photo into whoever’s face had dared to print it. Rage seared up her spine like fire racing an oxygen line.
Then nausea flattened her. Her knees locked. Bile rose instead.
She’d thought the worst was over. But this? This was something else. Something calculated.
She crumpled the paper in her fist. Shoved it in her back pocket. Her hands were shaking.
She needed to tell someone. Dean. McKenna. Anyone.
But right now, she just needed a fucking second to stand without throwing up.
“Hey.”
Kennedy’s voice was quiet.
Talia startled.
The medic held up a honey stick, the kind you buy at gas stations.
“My grandma used to say sugar helps the shakes.”
Talia blinked at it. The golden syrup inside caught the light like it mattered.
She took it. “Thanks.”
Kennedy didn’t press. Just gave her a soft smile and walked off, braid swinging behind her.
Talia stood in the hallway for a long time, honey stick in hand, body still humming.
She didn’t cry. Didn’t breathe. But she ripped the plastic open with her teeth and let the syrup coat her tongue. It was cloying, golden, alive.
Her stomach clenched, threatened revolt. She swallowed anyway. It stayed down.
And that—against everything else—felt like survival.
Chapter 40
Proximity Games
Talia
The first time Elijah brushed her arm in the bay, she didn’t flinch. She noticed.
The second time—his hand on her back, guiding her past a hydrant hose, casual, confident, fingertips grazing the bare skin where her shirt had ridden up—her breath caught. Barely. But enough to know she was paying attention. Too much attention.
Elijah King was calm where the others were chaotic. Steady where Dean unraveled. Solid where Jake threatened.
He stood just over six feet, fit from years of military PT—broad-shouldered with strong arms that flexed easily beneath his station tee. A full sleeve of black-and-gray ink ran down one arm, hints of script and symbols peeking from beneath hiscuff. His hair was dark, buzzed short. His eyes were green—not bright, but deep, grounded. The kind of eyes that didn’t miss a thing.
His hands were large and calloused, the kind that had carried stretchers, gripped tools, and steadied rifles. When he passed behind her, his heat lingered—a quiet force, steady and sure, like he could burn without ever needing to touch her.
And when he smiled—rare, but real—it was the kind of smile that disarmed you. Honest. Earned. The opposite of Jake’s smirk or Dean’s restraint. It felt like he meant it.
He didn’t leer. Didn’t push. Didn’t try to peel her open like a game he expected to win.
He just… saw her.
And right now, Talia didn’t trust being seen.
