Page 3 of The Firefighter's Claim
I cross the room in long strides, dropping to my knees beside her. Up close, she's even more perfect. Soft. Full. Vulnerable. Her skin glows despite the film of soot, and those eyes widen as she takes me in.
When I slide my arms beneath her, lifting her against my chest, a current passes between us. Her weight feels right in my arms—substantial, real. Not some fragile twig that might snap, but a woman with lush curves that fit against me like she was designed for me alone.
"Hang on tight," I tell her, and she does, one hand clutching her bear, the other grabbing my shoulder. Her fingers dig in, trusting me to save her.
She will never be in danger again. The thought slams into me, unexpected and absolute. Mine to protect. Mine to keep.
"We're taking the stairs," I say, already moving. "Keep your face against me."
She turns into my chest obediently, her warm breath filtering through my gear. The simple act of submission lights me up from the inside. This woman doesn't know me, yet she trusts me with her life. I will earn that trust. I will become worthy of it.
The building's falling apart around us. Support beams cracking, ceiling starting to bow. None of it matters. I'd walk through the flames of hell itself with her in my arms.
I navigate through the hallway, shielding her body with mine. She's pressed tight against me, those perfect curves molding to my form even through the bulky gear. I'm suddenly, violently aware of how little she's wearing—just that thin t-shirt, nothing else from what I can feel. The knowledge shoots straight to my groin, inappropriate and unstoppable.
Keep it together, Wolfe. She's a victim. A civilian. Just doing your job.
But it's not just the job anymore. It's her.
We reach the stairwell, and I rip off my mask to see better in the relative safety of the concrete enclosure. She looks up then, those big brown eyes locking onto mine, and the world stops spinning.
Recognition. Not that we've met before, but something deeper. More primal. Her pupils dilate as she takes me in, and I know she feels it too—this inexplicable pull between us.
My arms tighten around her automatically. I've got you, I think again, but it means something different now. Something permanent.
"I've got you," I say aloud, making it a vow.
I take the stairs faster than is technically safe, but I need to get her out, need to see her in the light, need to make sure she's real and unharmed and mine. The possessiveness should scare me. It doesn't.
The night air hits us as we push through the exit door. Paramedics rush forward, hands reaching for her, but my body tenses. I'm not ready to let go.
"Dagger! Status?" My captain's voice cuts through the chaos.
"Civilian retrieved," I respond automatically, walking toward the ambulance at my own pace, ignoring the hands trying to take her from me. Not yet. Not until I'm ready.
I look down at her perfect face, smudged with soot but still the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. "What's your name?" I ask, needing to know, needing to taste it on my tongue.
"Connie," she answers, voice small but steady. "Connie Evans."
Connie. The name settles in my chest like it's always been there.
I tell her my name, watching her process it. Most people react to "Dagger" with raised eyebrows or nervous laughter. Not her. She accepts it immediately, like she understands that ordinary names wouldn't fit me.
The paramedics are getting impatient. I lower her onto the gurney with reluctance, my hands lingering longer than necessary on her waist, her shoulder, finally her hand. The contrast between my massive, filthy paw and her smaller, softer one should be comical. Instead, it looks right. Meant to be.
"You're safe now," I tell her as they place an oxygen mask over her face. Her eyes never leave mine, wide and trusting and something else—something that makes heat pool in my stomach.
A paramedic tries to nudge me aside. I don't budge. Instead, I take her hand in mine, her delicate fingers disappearing into my grip. "I'm staying right here," I say, making it clear to everyone around us that I'm not going anywhere.
She doesn't object. If anything, relief washes over her face.
"Wolfe, we need you back in," my captain calls. "Building's still hot, more potential victims."
For the first time in my career, I hesitate. Connie's eyes flash with something—understanding, concern.
"Go," she whispers behind the mask. "Help them."
The fact that she's encouraging me to leave her, to save others, lands like a punch to my solar plexus. This woman, who's just lost everything, is thinking about strangers. My chest expands with an unfamiliar feeling.
