Page 72 of Controlled Burn
She wanted him to feel it—see her.
By the time she slid into the edge of the booth, lungs raw from dancing, heart pounding, the night had started to blur.
That’s when the voice cut through the noise.
A blade at her throat.
“You must be Talia.”
She turned.
The woman was in her thirties, maybe older. Pretty in that cold, expensive way that comes with money and resentment. Dark hair in polished curls, blouse too white, nails red and perfect, wrapped around a whiskey glass like she might throw it if she wanted.
Talia blinked. “Sorry. Do I know you?”
“I’m Elena Reyes.”
The name landed like a punch. Her stomach hollowed. Lt. Reyes’s wife. Of course.
The one who must’ve heard every damn rumor.
Ryan’s posture changed, all tension and protective distance. Jake straightened, jaw flexing, knuckles white around his beer.
But Elena only smiled—smooth, poisonous. “I know who you are. I’ve heard your name enough this week to recognize your laugh in my sleep.”
Talia’s throat went dry. “I think you’ve got the wrong idea.”
“No, I think I have the exact idea,” Elena said, voice velvet over steel. “You think you’re clever, playing every guy in the house? One day on Jake’s lap, the next giving your married captain those eyes like he’s your personal dessert?”
Talia stood. Her spine snapped straight, blood boiling under her skin. “You came to a bar to slut-shame me?”
“I came to warn you,” Elena replied, lips curling. “Women like you—”
“Don’t last?” Talia snapped, voice gone icy. “Save the Lifetime monologue for someone who cares.”
The table went dead silent—every eye on her.
Talia didn’t back down. She stepped in, toe-to-toe, eyes hard as flint.
“If your husband’s that insecure, maybe take it up with him. Not the girl he jerks off thinking about while pretending he still wants you.”
Elena’s lip curled. “Watch your back, Cross.”
Talia’s smile was razor-thin, all defiance. “Get the fuck out of my face.”
And she did.
But the damage was done. The cracks she’d been barely holding together splintered all at once.
She was done. Done playing nice. Done feeling dirty for wanting. For being wanted. For not apologizing.
Jake leaned down, voice gravelly, unreadable. “You good?”
She turned, that dangerous smile carving at her mouth. “Let’s get out of here.”
They didn’t take her home.
Jake’s place was ten minutes away. Clean enough. A candle burning low in the kitchen, scent of vanilla and bourbon masking a thousand sins. A half-empty bottle of whiskey on the counter. Bachelor clutter.
