Page 90 of Slow Burn
There’d been blood on the floor beneath him, and he’d struggled to stay conscious when she’d called his name.
“Where are you hurt?” she asked as he clutched her to him, thankfully not passing out the way she feared.
He didn’t answer, just reached for the back of his head as if only then realizing he was injured.
Jocelyn gently pulled his hand down to check for herself, leaning close to inspect the dark, matted curls. The blood was tacky and drying—a good sign—but the gash was still deep enough to make him flinch when she carefully probed it.
Thank God sirens were already wailing closer, but the reminder that Eric Ward was still in the apartment jolted her attention upward.
Flames burned hotter inside, punching out windows with the rising temperature, making her flinch. The brick structure would stand, but everything inside—everything that had been Cole’s—was another story.
She glanced back at him. His gaze seemed unfocused, but he was staring at the building that carried the weight of all his work, and her chest ached for him. A sharp edge of guilt twisted inside her, too.
Before it could take root, Cole’s grip on her tightened as emergency vehicles rolled into view, lights splashing against the alley until they pulled close to where they sat. He buried his face against her neck with a sigh, his breath brushing her collarbone.
“It’s a damn relief seein’ you in one piece,” he muttered.
“Me?” Jocelyn gave a weak, wobbly laugh. It threatened to turn into a sob.
“It was hell not being able to do more in there. If somethin’ had happened to you…” His words trailed, rough against her skin.
She smirked faintly. “You don’t have to rescue me, Cole.”
He lifted his head, wincing at the movement but managing a playful glare. “It’s not about playin’ hero.”
“No?” she asked, cupping his face in both hands.
He gave the slightest shake of his head. “I couldn’t live with myself if I lost you.”
Her breath caught at the words, lodging somewhere in her chest, but she didn’t get a chance to say anything, to ask what he meant.
Two fire fighters had made their way over, separating them. The first—introduced himself as Holt—started asking about possible injuries, pain, checked her eyes.
“I’m fine,” she said, drawing Cole’s hard gaze, but she didn’t look over.
“Others in the building?” Holt asked, slipping a blood pressure cuff onto her arm.
“Frank Leone,” she said numbly, staring down at the gauge as the needle danced. “He’s already dead. Ward shot him.”
Holt’s hands stilled. “Ward?” he asked.
She nodded. “Chief Eric Ward. He started the fire.”
Holt exchanged a glance with his companion, who’d paused his appraisal of Cole. Then he turned to call for another crewman, who jogged over.
Holt waved his hand at the new guy. “Get on your radio. The lady says Chief Ward started the fire. Where is Ward now?” he asked her.
“Inside, too.” She swallowed, the full weight of what had happened, what she’ddone,taking shape along her shoulders. The air suddenly felt thin as the men around her stared. “I tackled him. He hit his head. Didn’t move. I don’t know if he was alive. I didn’t check.” Short sentences were all she could manage. “We had to get out.”
The men exchanged a glance again, then looked at Cole, who was intent on Jocelyn’s face. It was the first he was hearing this part, too.
“Ward pulled a gun on me. Knocked me out,” Cole said, reaching for the back of his head.
“Eric Ward?” the firefighter kneeling before him said again, disbelief plain in his voice.
“Yes,” Cole snapped.
“Radio this in.” Holt said to the new guy, face edged with shock.
