Page 6 of The Firefighter's Claim
The scrubs hang on my frame, designed for someone taller and less curvy. I catch my reflection in the small bathroom mirror and wince. My hair is a disaster, my face smudged with soot despite the nurse's attempts to clean it. I look exactly like what I am—a woman who just escaped a burning building.
When I emerge, Dagger's eyes sweep over me, and to my shock, what I see isn't pity or clinical assessment. It's heat. Pure, masculine appreciation that makes my cheeks flush.
"Ready?" he asks.
No. I'm not ready for any of this. But I nod anyway.
He guides me through the hospital with a hand at the small of my back, his touch gentle but possessive. A firefighter in the waiting room calls out to him, but Dagger merely nods inacknowledgment, never slowing his stride or removing his hand from my back.
Outside, dawn has broken, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold that seem obscenely beautiful after the night's horror. Dagger leads me to a truck parked in the emergency lane—clearly breaking several parking regulations, but no one has ticketed or towed the firefighter's vehicle.
He helps me into the passenger seat like I'm made of glass, his hands lingering for a heartbeat longer than necessary. The interior of the truck is surprisingly clean, smelling of pine and something uniquely him.
We drive in silence. I should be terrified—going home with a stranger, no matter how heroic, is objectively dangerous. Instead, I feel a strange calm. Whether it's shock or something deeper, I can't say.
"Where do you live?" I finally ask as we cross into Brooklyn.
"Red Hook," he answers, eyes on the road. "Near the water."
He doesn't elaborate, and I don't push. The exhaustion of the night is catching up with me, making my eyelids heavy despite the surreal circumstances. I must doze off, because the next thing I know, we're pulling into a parking spot outside a converted warehouse.
"We're here," he says, his voice gentler than before.
I follow him into the building, up three flights of stairs, and down a hallway to a heavy steel door. His apartment is exactly what I'd expect from someone like him—spartan but not sterile. Exposed brick walls, high ceilings, minimalist furniture that looks chosen for function rather than style. It's unmistakably masculine, yet not unwelcoming.
"Bathroom's through there," he says, gesturing to a door. "You should shower. I'll find you something to wear."
The suggestion of being naked in his space sends a jolt through me. "I can't just... stay here," I say, finding my voice atlast. "This is crazy. We don't know each other. I appreciate the rescue—more than I can say—but this is too much. I should go to a hotel, or call the Red Cross, or?—"
I don't finish the sentence, because suddenly he's right there, crowding into my space, one large hand cupping my jaw. His touch is gentle but insistent, tilting my face up to his.
"You're staying with me, baby. Where it's safe."
The endearment—so unexpected, so intimate—steals my breath. Before I can process it, his mouth is on mine.
The kiss obliterates thought. His lips are firm but surprisingly soft, moving against mine with practiced confidence. It's not a tentative first kiss. It's a claiming. A branding. His tongue traces the seam of my lips, demanding entry, and I grant it without hesitation.
He tastes like smoke and something darker, richer—something uniquely him. His hand slides from my jaw to the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair, cradling my head like I'm precious. His other arm wraps around my waist, drawing me against the solid wall of his chest.
I should push him away. I should be outraged at his presumption. Instead, my hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer. A small, needy sound escapes me—half whimper, half moan.
The kiss deepens, turns hungry. The arm around my waist tightens, lifting me slightly so our bodies align more perfectly. Even through the shapeless scrubs, I feel the hard ridge of his arousal pressing against my stomach. The evidence of his desire for me—for me—is as shocking as it is thrilling.
When he finally breaks the kiss, we're both breathing hard. His eyes have darkened to midnight blue, pupils dilated with want. He doesn't step back, keeping me pressed against him, his hand still tangled in my hair.
"Any more arguments?" he asks, his voice rough with need.
I should have a thousand. But looking up at him—this man who walked through fire to save me, who's looking at me like I'm everything he's ever wanted—I can't form a single coherent objection.
"No," I whisper, the fight going out of me. "No more arguments."
Something like satisfaction flashes across his face. He presses one more firm kiss to my lips, then releases me reluctantly.
"Shower," he says. "I'll find you clothes. Then food. Then rest."
The simple commands should annoy me. Instead, they provide a framework when everything else has collapsed. Clean. Dress. Eat. Sleep. I can do that.
As I turn toward the bathroom, his voice stops me once more.
