Page 3 of Let it Ignite
“You’re coming with me.”
She shakes her head, a shaky breath escaping her lips. “No, I can’t… I shouldn’t…” Her gaze darts around, searching for an escape, but my grip is anchoring her to the spot.
“Look at me,” I growl, tilting her chin up so her wide, fearful eyes lock with mine. “I just dragged you out of a burning building. I’m not about to let you wander off alone in the middle of the night in shock and covered in ash.”
She swallows hard, her pulse a frantic flutter beneath my fingers, her eyes flicking over my face like she’s trying to decide if I’m the lesser of two evils.
“I don’t even know your name,” she whispers, her breath warm against my jaw as she stares up at me, wide-eyed and trembling.
“Byron Summers,” I grit out, my thumb still brushing against the inside of her wrist, feeling the rapid, panicked beat of her pulse. “There. You know my name and you know I work for the Silvertown Fire Department. I think that’s sufficient information.”
Her lips part and her chest heaves with short, shallow breaths. For a second, I see the fear flicker into something else—something raw and uncertain, a spark of trust she can’t quite hide.
Then, slowly, she nods, her lashes fluttering as she looks away, her chin dipping to her chest in silent surrender.
“Okay,” she whispers, her voice so soft I almost miss it over the wail of distant sirens. “Cassie. Cassandra Royal. I’m an actress.”
I take a breath, my grip on her wrist tightening just a fraction, the possessive, protective instinct surging again. “Nice to meet you, Cassie.”
I don’t let go of her wrist, even as I reach for my radio to let Levi know I’m out of commission for the night.
Chapter 2
Cassie
I’m sitting in the passenger seat of a firefighter’s truck, my legs bare, my dress clinging to my skin, and my heart doing this strange fluttery thing I can’t get under control. I’ve never been around a man like this. Truth be told, I haven’t really been around men at all.
Mama kept them away—said they were a distraction, said they only ever wanted one thing and it wasn’t your mind or your heart. So I grew up learning to keep my head down, my legs crossed, and my dreams bigger than any boy who looked my way.
But nothing in those lessons prepared me for Byron Summers. He didn’t just look at me—he stormed through smoke and flame and dragged me into his arms like I was his to protect. Like the idea of not getting to me wasn’t an option. That kind of power, that kind of male certainty—it did something to me. It woke something up. Something deep and dark and feral inside me that had been sleeping for years, untouched. A craving to be wanted. To be handled. To be claimed. Not gently, not carefully—but fully. Without apology.
The man didn’t just look at me—he carried me out of a fire like some kind of storybook hero, all smoke and brawn and fierce, unyielding purpose. And it wasn’t just the way he held me, like I weighed nothing, like getting to me was the only thing that mattered. It was what it did to me. What it unlocked.
Even his name sounds like a leading man from one of those vintage movies my mom used to love. The kind of man who’d carry you out of a burning building and not break a sweat.
Which, yeah, he literally just did.
I sneak a glance at him. His jaw is tense, his hands gripping the steering wheel like it owes him money. Every time he shifts, his forearms flex, tendons tight beneath tanned skin. He’s still in his bunker pants and a tight black shirt, muscles on full display, chest rising and falling with the slow comedown from the adrenaline rush.
I should be scared. I just got in a truck with a man I met less than half an hour ago—a man who looks like he could bend steel with his bare hands.
But I’m not scared. I’m hyper-aware.
Every nerve is lit up like a switchboard. The way his thigh is just a few inches from mine. The faint scent of leather and smoke clinging to him. The way his jaw clenches every time my teeth chatter from the cold.
He keeps sneaking glances at me like he’s trying not to.
And I can’t stop noticing the way his eyes drop to my legs every time we stop at a red light.
I shouldn’t want him. Not after everything that just happened.
But God help me, I do.
“Cold?” he asks, voice low and rough, like it’s coming from deep inside his chest.
“No,” I say, voice unsteady. “Just trying to figure out if getting in your truck was the dumbest thing I’ve ever done.”
His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. “Too late to back out now.”
