Page 1 of Let it Ignite
Chapter 1
Byron
The call comes in just after midnight. Three-story apartment complex on the east edge of Silvertown Hollow. Flames reported through the second floor. Possible occupants still inside.
I’m already halfway into my gear before Levi finishes reading the dispatch.
“This building’s old as hell,” he mutters as we roll out. “Wiring’s probably a rat’s nest.”
I grunt in response, jaw tight. I know the place. Cheap. Run-down. Mostly filled with folks trying to start over or hang on. No one deserves this.
By the time we arrive, smoke is pumping out the windows in thick gray waves. The air smells like burning plastic and drywall and something worse—something deeper, darker. Panic.
Levi’s voice crackles through my radio as I step off the rig. “Byron, take McCoy and go. Work in tandem. We need a full sweep of the second and third floors.”
I catch Zeke’s eye. He nods, already tightening the straps on his mask. We don’t waste words. He knows the drill as well as I do.
We push through the entrance, the heat hitting us like a wall. Smoke clings to my gear, thick and choking. Visibility drops to near zero, my flashlight beam swallowed up by the haze.
“Left side,” I shout over the roar of the fire, pointing to the split hallway. “I’ll take the north units. You sweep the south.”
Zeke’s eyes flash with understanding, his gloved hand slapping my shoulder before he disappears into the darkness.
The second-floor landing creaks under my boots, the wood scorched and brittle. Every step feels like a gamble, but there’s no turning back. Not while someone might still be up here.
I move quickly, kicking open doors, shouting over the crackle of burning walls. Empty rooms. Smoke-filled halls. Just when I’m about to turn back, I hear it—a muffled, desperate cough.
“Fire department!” I bellow, shining my light into the next apartment.
Nothing.
Then another cough, sharper this time.
I push into the room, stepping over fallen debris, my pulse hammering. The air is hotter here, the smoke thicker, swirling around me like a living thing.
And then I see her.
She’s huddled against the far wall, one arm shielding her face, the other clutching a stack of papers to her chest.
I cross the room in three strides, kneeling beside her.
Her outfit catches my eye—a tight, red leather mini dress, fishnets torn at the knee, and heels that make my ankles hurt just looking at them. She’s shaking, eyes wide and glassy, mascara streaked down her cheeks.
“Hey, you’re okay. I’m here to help get you out.” My voice comes out rough, harsher than I intend, but the urgency leaves no room for softness.
“Oh, thank God.” She says.
Her eyes snap to mine, wide and glassy, lips parting like she wants to speak but can’t find the air. Her chest rises and falls in quick, shallow gasps, the tight, red leather of her dress pulling against the curve of her breasts, revealing a deep, tantalizing line of milky white cleavage that makes my pulse trip over itself. I have to drag my eyes back up to her face, my jaw clenching against the sudden, unwelcome rush of heat that flares low in my gut. It’s probably burning hotter than this fire.
“Come on,” I say, sliding my arm around her waist, feeling the heat of her bare skin through the thin, sweat-slick leather. “We’ve got to move and get you out of here.”
She clings to me, her nails digging into the thick fabric of my jacket, her body pressing against mine as I haul her to her feet. She’s lighter than I expect, all soft curves and trembling limbs, her head falling against my shoulder as she lets out a ragged, broken sob.
I scoop her up, one arm under her legs, the other wrapped around her waist, and she instinctively curls into me, her chest pressing against mine, the frantic flutter of her pulse brushing against my throat. I catch a whiff of something sweet and out of place—roses, cutting through the smoke and sweat, mingling with the heady, almost intoxicating heat radiating off her body.
The fire crackles around us, beams splintering, walls groaning as the structure gives way, but all I can focus on is the feel of her against me—the way her bare thighs tremble against my forearm, the way her breath hitches when I shift my grip, the soft, sweat-slick curve of her breast brushing against my chest as I adjust my hold.
Damn it. Not the time. Not the place. How fucking unprofessional, Byron Summers.
