Page 13 of The Firefighter's Claim
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Dagger
Three daysshe's been in my apartment, in my bed, in my life. Three days of her scent on my sheets, her toothbrush beside mine, her soft body curled against me at night. Not enough. Nowhere near enough. I want more. I want forever. The need to keep her, to claim her completely, grows stronger with each passing hour. She's working through the logistics of her upended life—calling insurance companies, arranging for replacement ID, contacting her school. I'm arranging for her to never leave.
I've taken time off work. Called in favors I've never used in twelve years on the job. Nothing matters except being with her, watching her move through my space, filling all the empty corners I never realized were there.
Yesterday, I took her shopping. Watching her try on clothes, seeing the flush spread across her cheeks when I insisted on buying everything she liked—it did something to me. Something possessive and primal. Mine to provide for. Mine to protect. Mine to keep.
She's still shy about her body, still turns away when she undresses despite how many times I've worshipped every inch of her. Still doesn't understand how perfect she is, how her curves drive me crazy, how the softness of her makes my hands ache to touch her.
I'm in the kitchen making coffee when the doorbell rings. Connie looks up from the couch where she's been making calls, her brow furrowed in confusion.
"Are you expecting someone?" she asks.
I'm not. My team knows I'm off-rotation. My few friends know better than to drop by unannounced. I cross to the door, tension coiling in my muscles.
The man standing in my hallway is everything I'm not—medium height, slim build, neatly dressed in pressed khakis and a button-down shirt. He holds a small gift bag and wears a concerned expression that instantly raises my hackles.
"Can I help you?" I ask, not bothering to hide my displeasure at finding him at my door.
"I'm looking for Connie Evans?" he says, the statement lilting up like a question. "I'm Patrick Lawson, we work together at Westfield Elementary. The principal said she might be staying here after the fire?"
A hot, dark feeling spreads through my chest. This man knows Connie. Works with her daily. Has probably watched her bend over tiny desks, seen her laugh, heard her voice when I wasn't there to protect her.
"Dagger? Who is it?" Connie appears beside me, her hand lightly touching my arm. The simple contact does nothing to calm the territorial surge rushing through me.
"Patrick!" she exclaims, sounding pleased. Too pleased. "What are you doing here?"
"The whole staff's been worried sick," he says, his eyes lighting up at the sight of her. "When Mrs. Abernathy said youwere staying with a firefighter, we wanted to make sure you were okay." He holds out the gift bag. "Just some things from the teacher's lounge. Gift cards, some toiletries, a few books to keep you occupied."
She steps forward to accept it, moving past me into what I consider dangerous proximity to this stranger. This male stranger who is looking at her with undisguised concern and something else—something that makes me want to put my fist through his face.
"That's so thoughtful," she says warmly. "Please thank everyone for me. I'll be back at work on Monday."
Monday. Four days away. Four more days of having her all to myself before the real world intrudes. Not enough.
"Would you like to come in?" she offers, the hospitality automatic.
Yes, she would invite another man into my space. Into our space. The primal part of my brain roars in objection, but I force myself to step aside, to allow this intrusion for her sake.
Patrick steps inside, his eyes widening slightly as he takes in my apartment. "Nice place," he comments, his gaze lingering too long on Connie, who's wearing leggings and one of my t-shirts, knotted at her waist. The sight of her in my clothes usually fills me with satisfaction. Now it makes me want to drag her back to the bedroom, remind her who she belongs to.
"How did you find where I was staying?" Connie asks, leading him to the living area. She sits on the couch. He sits too close.
"Mrs. Abernathy had the address from the insurance forms. I volunteered to drop off the care package." He leans toward her, lowering his voice slightly. "Are you really okay, Con? This is all so sudden and... well, unorthodox."
Con. He has a nickname for her. The muscle in my jaw ticks as I clench my teeth.
"I'm fine, really," she assures him, her eyes flicking to me. "Dagger's been... incredible."
"So you two are..." He trails off, looking between us.
"Yes," I answer before she can, moving to stand behind the couch, my hand dropping possessively to her shoulder. "We are."
Patrick's expression flickers with something—disappointment, maybe. Good. He should be disappointed. He should know she's taken. Off-limits. Mine.
