Page 86 of Controlled Burn
You like being used, don’t you?
A shiver rippled down her spine. Not fear. Something worse. Need.
The shame was alive now—crawling up her throat, slithering beneath her skin. She should’ve pushed him off. Should’ve screamed. Should’ve reported it.
But she hadn’t.
She’d clawed his back. She’d begged him not to stop. Now, in the brittle quiet of morning, that reality soured in her chest like spoiled milk.
She ducked into the locker room, peeled off her sweatshirt, and sat on the bench with her elbows on her knees. Her hands trembled. She stared down at them like they might offer some kind of answer.
What the fuck am I doing?
A few weeks ago, she was just the rookie. Hungry to prove herself. To earn respect.
Now? She was a walking scandal. A whisper. A video. A rumor. A woman, her captain had called “just a rookie” to his wife, and then ruined her in her own apartment.
The bruise on her collarbone throbbed in time with her pulse. She pressed a finger into it, hard. Pain meant it was real.
The sound of footsteps made her jolt. She turned, breath caught—but it was only Watts. Hair tied back. Eyes puffy. No makeup. She paused at the door.
They didn’t speak.
But Nina Watts looked at her—really looked—and something passed between them. Not warmth. Not pity. But recognition. Perhaps Nina had worn bruises like those herself once. Talia stayed rooted in place, watched her pass without a word, and heard the door click closed behind her. She drew slow, shuddering breaths to ease the ache in her ribs.
The rest of the day passed in pieces. A blur of bunker gear and clipboard checks. Bullshit calls. Nods. Banter. Laughter that didn’t touch her.
She was invisible again. Not the girl in the photo. Not the one he kissed. Not the captain’s dirty secret. Just another uniform in the machine.
And she found comfort in that because obscurity felt like safety.
Until lunchtime.
She was reaching into the fridge for a Gatorade when she heard his voice—low, raw—at the far end of the kitchen.
“Cross. Got a second?”
The bottle slipped from her fingers. Hit the floor with a dull thud.
Dean stood by the doorway. Arms crossed. Face hollowed out like someone had scraped all the sleep and color from it, like ash left after a burn.
She didn’t say a word.
He stepped closer. Not too close. Careful.
“I didn’t mean to show up last night,” he said. “I wasn’t planning to…”
Talia stayed silent.
“I was drunk,” he added.
She let out a slow, quiet breath. Not a scoff. Not a laugh. Just air leaving her lungs.
“You weren’t drunk when you put your hand on my throat,” she said.
Dean’s jaw flexed. “No.”
“You weren’t drunk when you called me a slut.”
