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CHAPTER 7

EMBER

T he pieces aren’t just falling into place. They’re snapping together with precision, each one locking into the next with the cold certainty of a loaded weapon. It’s not coincidence—it’s design. Calculated. Intentional. Like someone built this firestorm with purpose, and I’ve just found the safety catch.

The files from the past four years are a mess—redactions sliced through them like surgical incisions, whole pages corrupted like someone wanted the truth to rot from the inside. Conveniently missing logs. Metadata scrubbed. But one name keeps surfacing like smoke in the wreckage: Dennis Price. A wildfire tech who knew how to dance at the edge of legality—brilliant, reckless, the kind of man who didn’t just flirt with danger but made out with it in a back alley.

He had a knack for incendiary tech, drone calibration, and predictive fire modeling. Too smart for his own good. Two years ago, he got flagged in a disciplinary review—experimental flare tech used outside regulation protocols. No formal charges. Just silence. Then nothing. Not a trace. Like he burned out of existence, or someone made damn sure it looked like he did.

I sit back in my folding chair, rubbing a hand down my face, heart thudding with the cold excitement of something dark clicking into place. It’s a thread. Maybe even the thread.

Dennis Price had access to remote ignition systems—tech that always seemed to outperform expectation, even in simulations that should’ve failed. It was as if the fire listened to him, like he understood something elemental the rest of the department couldn’t explain or replicate. It was as if he had enough technical skill to start a fire without ever lighting a match.

A note in one file said he’d become obsessed with 'nonlinear ignition anomalies'—fires acting without predictable logic, burning against the wind, behaving like they had will. That’s not tech. That’s... something else. And I don’t like how it sits in my gut.

I pull out my phone and dial the number from memory. It rings twice before a gravel-rough voice answers.

"You got two minutes," the contact says, already cagey.

"I’m looking into Dennis Price," I say, keeping my tone light. "Word is he used to have someone local? Girlfriend?"

There’s a pause—too long. I hear the flick of a lighter, the inhale of a cigarette.

"She’s still around," he finally says. "Keeps to herself mostly since Dennis left. Lives just outside of Flagstaff. She doesn’t talk much… unless she’s drinking."

"And when she is?"

Another pause. Then: "She gets… weird. Starts rambling about things Dennis said. Secret testing sites. Weather that wasn’t right—lightning with no clouds, wind that reversed direction mid-burn. Said he was obsessed with some damn symbol. A spiral. Drew it everywhere—napkins, notebooks, her walls."

My hand tightens on the phone. "Did she say what it meant?"

"She thought it was some kind of marker," the contact mutters. "Said it showed up at fire sites—on scorched bark, rocks, even old maps. Claimed it wasn’t natural. Swore it was a message. Said fire could be… trained. Like it was waiting for the right leash."

I feel the hair rise on my arms. A symbol. A message. A beast on a leash.

"Thanks," I start to say, but I realize I’m talking to dead air—my two minutes are up.

I’m halfway packed and heading to the SUV when the gravel crunches behind me—deliberate steps, measured and heavy like a warning. I don’t need to turn around to know who it is. The air is different when he’s near, like the pressure changes. Like heat remembers its master. My pulse stutters, equal parts anticipation and exasperation. Of course it’s him.

“Going somewhere?” Dax’s voice is low and smooth, but there’s steel threaded through it—a warning dressed in silk. It wraps around my spine, tightening something low in my belly. His tone never rises, never breaks, but it doesn’t have to. It curls into me like smoke and heat, impossible to ignore.

“I need to follow a lead,” I toss over my shoulder, not even bothering to slow down. He doesn’t need the details, and I don’t need his permission.

“You’re not cleared for solo fieldwork outside of the perimeter.” His voice stays even, but I catch the flicker in his eyes—displeasure, unmistakable. He’s used to people falling in line, not walking off without so much as a nod. And that I didn’t defer, didn’t check in? It needles at him. I can feel it like static on my skin.

I stop, slowly turn, and give him the look. "That wasn’t a request. I’m not here to play firefighter, Dax. I’m conducting an arson investigation. That means chasing leads wherever they take me. With or without clearance. With or without backup. Price’s ex-girlfriend is supposedly in Flagstaff, so Flagstaff is where I’m headed."

His jaw tightens. He watches me for a beat too long, like he’s biting back ten different orders he knows I won’t take. “Then I’m not letting you out of my sight.” His tone is clipped, his control razor-sharp—but barely. “You may not be here to fight the fire, but that doesn’t mean it won’t come for you. Besides, you were assigned to me, so I’ll make sure you don’t get hurt.”

“I don’t need backup.” I flash him a tight smile, more teeth than warmth. "You’re not exactly subtle, and I prefer my interviews without smoldering glares and alpha posturing. Try not to stomp too loudly when I’m actually working."

"Too bad," he says, with the kind of grim finality that makes it clear he doesn’t care how I feel about it. "Because I’m not going anywhere. You may not want backup, but you’ve got me whether or not you like it."

I don’t bother arguing. Not because he’s right, but because I know exactly the kind of battle it would turn into—gritted teeth, stubborn silence, and him shadowing me anyway. And a part of me doesn’t hate having him there. Doesn’t hate the way his eyes track every move I make, like he’s already claimed me. Even if I don’t trust what he’s hiding, even if I don’t need his protection, that heat in his gaze? It lingers. And it makes it damn hard to pretend I don’t notice.

Flagstaff is cooler than the canyon base but no less charged. The city lights are too sharp, too clean, like they’re trying to erase the grit this place still clings to. It’s a different kind of heat here—urban, humming beneath the neon.

We end up at a locals-only dive just outside the edge of town, a place that smells like spilled whiskey and worn in secrets. String lights dangle from the ceiling like lazy fireflies, casting shadows across pool tables scarred by years of poor bets. The jukebox is stuck in a loop of old country heartbreak, bleeding emotion into the walls like it’s part of the foundation.

Exactly the kind of place where truths get drunk out of people—where memories slip loose and secrets crawl into the open on the back of cheap whiskey. A place where the ghosts don’t just haunt—they linger in ash and bar smoke. Dennis Price might’ve left more than a trail here. He might’ve left a shadow still burning at the edges.

Perfect.

Dax leans close as we step through the door. His voice is low and warm against my ear. "If Price’s ex-girlfriend is skittish—and word is she is—don’t spook her. Let me handle the approach."

I raise an eyebrow. “Because you’re so warm and fuzzy?”

He grins, sharp and a little wicked. “Because I can be convincing when I need to be.”

I don't doubt that, not even for a minute. Dax’s breath brushes my neck—warm, slow, and far too intimate for a man I’m supposed to be keeping at a professional distance. I shiver, not from cold, but from the way his presence lingers like smoke—something dangerous that clings even after the fire’s out. It’s infuriating. It’s intoxicating. And I hate how much I feel it.

We find the ex-girlfriend—Danielle—already a drink and a half in, nursing a half-empty glass of something amber and suspiciously strong at a high-top table in the corner. Her hair’s piled up like she did it with a pencil, and her eyeliner’s smudging from the heat. She eyes Dax, then me, then our proximity with a knowing smirk, like she’s seen a hundred stories start this way and none of them ended with a handshake.

“You two together?” she asks, slurring slightly, her gaze ping-ponging between us with an arched brow and a grin that knows too much. Her voice carries the weight of idle gossip and something sharper underneath, like she already knows the answer but wants to watch us squirm, anyway.

Dax’s hand settles on the small of my back. Possessive. Subtle. Not the casual touch of a man playing a part—but the kind that makes your spine straighten and your breath catch. It says 'mine' without saying a word. And worse, my body doesn’t recoil. It leans.

“Yeah,” he says easily, his voice dipping into something low and dangerous. “She’s mine.” It rolls off his tongue with a possessiveness that sounds too natural—too convincing. Like he’s not just playing the part. Like he believes it. Like he dares anyone to question it.

My body flushes, even though I know it’s an act. My brain reminds me this is a cover, a tactic, a temporary lie to get what we need. We’re so good at faking it, we should probably get an Oscar and a safe word.

But my body? It doesn’t care. It reacts to him like it’s been waiting. The heat pooling in my core has nothing to do with logic. His touch brands. It lingers. My skin burns where his hand rests, and I hate that I don’t want him to move it. Hate that I want more.

I force my mouth into a tight smile, sliding onto the stool beside her like this is just another day at the office. “He’s overprotective,” I say, injecting as much dry sarcasm as I can to mask the sharp edge of awareness thrumming under my skin.

“Hot, though,” she mutters, then leans forward. “You buying?”

We’re two rounds in when Danielle starts to talk. At first, it’s a string of half-laughed stories and offhand bitterness, the kind of drunken venting you can hear in a hundred bars across the state. But then something changes in her eyes—goes a little darker. She leans closer, lowering her voice even though no one is listening.

"Dennis was paranoid," she says, tapping the rim of her glass. "Started acting like he was being followed. Said people were watching him. That his data wasn’t just risky—it was dangerous. Said he saw a fire move. Not spread. Move. Like it had eyes. Like it was hunting something. After that... he spiraled. Wouldn’t sleep. Wouldn’t talk. Then one day—gone. No goodbye. No note. Just... vanished. Like he burned himself out on purpose."

It clicks with a sharp, almost painful clarity. This isn’t wildfire by accident—it’s wildfire by design. Someone’s been testing fire behavior, not just with equipment, but with intent. Each blaze a field test. Each destruction site, a data point. They’re experimenting. Refining. And when it gets too visible, too precise, they bury the evidence beneath a firestorm. Neat. Clean.

Ashes don’t talk… at least not in words. That thought lands with a finality that makes my stomach twist. Because fire doesn’t just erase evidence—it erases people. Intent. Truth. And whoever is behind this? They know it.

I draw a shaky breath, pushing back from the table, the weight of the realization still pressing against my chest.

“You okay?” he asks as we step away together.

“They’re using fire as a message,” I say.

As the words leave my mouth, something sharp flickers at the edge of memory—a scorched and distorted circular pattern carved into the side of a tree at a fire site two years ago. I’d dismissed it at the time. Called it vandalism. But now… it matches the sketch Danielle described.

“And Dennis was trying to decode it,” I murmur.

Dax steps closer. “Decode what?”

“A symbol—a spiral—I found at a different fire. I didn’t file it because I didn’t think it meant anything…”

“But you think differently now.”

I nod. “I do,” I say as I glance up at him. “You’re not going to try to stop me?”

“No.” He hesitates. “But I won’t let you do it alone.”

There’s something in his tone—raw, unspoken, and laced with a kind of hunger I don’t know how to answer. It settles under my skin like a secret waiting to be named, curling there with heat and weight and the whisper of something inevitable. I want to ask what he’s not saying—but I already know the answer would change everything.

The bar’s jukebox changes the music to something slow and sultry. It drifts into the air between us, thick and low, curling around my spine like temptation. Dax steps in front of me, close enough that I can feel the heat of his body radiating across the small space. His eyes search mine, heavy with things he’s not saying, then he extends his hand—not a command, not a plea. An offering. But the way he looks at me? It says everything.

“Dance with me.”His voice is velvet over gravel, low and edged with something that isn't just desire—it's command wrapped in a question. It snakes into me, warm and thick, lighting every nerve it touches. It’s not just the words—it’s the way he says them. Like he already knows I will.

I blink. “Are you serious?”

His eyes drop to my lips, then back up. “Deadly.”

I should say no, but I don't. I shouldn't take his hand, but I do—because apparently my self-preservation instinct is no match for six feet, four inches of heat and temptation wrapped in bossy dominance and that damn voice. It's reckless. It's stupid. It's exactly the kind of trouble I promised myself I'd never chase again. And yet, here I am—already falling into his gravity.

He pulls me in, slow and easy, like he’s done it a thousand times in dreams I haven’t let myself remember. Our bodies fit too well—like puzzle pieces shaped by fire and instinct. His hand settles on my lower back, fingers spreading possessively, drawing me closer until the space between us evaporates. The heat of his palm sinks into my spine, awakening every nerve.

It’s not just a touch. It’s a claim. The kind I’ve let no one get close enough to make. It’s the kind of touch that speaks in a language older than reason, one I’ve spent years pretending I don’t understand. Despite that, I don't step away. And when I exhale, my breath comes out shaky, as if trapped since the moment he looked at me like this.

It’s a slow dance. Simple on the surface. But nothing about it feels simple. There’s a tension threaded through every step, every brush of contact, like we’re teetering on the edge of something combustible. His other hand finds mine—confident, warm, a tether I didn’t ask for but don’t shake off. My free hand rests on his chest, and I feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat.

Everything about Dax is firm, and unforgiving—muscle wrapped in heat and something deeper. But the way he holds me? It’s careful. Intimate.

“You’re not bad at this for someone whose idea of foreplay seems to be scowling,” I whisper. “This is probably a terrible idea.”

He nods. “Want to stop?” His voice is rough silk.

I don’t answer. I can’t.

We keep moving. One slow circle. Then another. The music fades into a distant hum, and the rest of the world disappears. It’s just him and me—heat and breath and the fragile silence wrapped between us. My breath syncs to his, like we’re tethered by more than just hands. My thoughts scatter like sparks, every one of them landing on him, burning holes in the walls I’ve spent years building.

His hand slides up with agonizing slowness. Fingers brush the edge of my jaw, a featherlight tease that makes my lips part involuntarily. They trail down the side of my neck, leaving a wake of heat that pulses just beneath the surface. His thumb strokes over my throat—slow, deliberate—like he’s feeling the thrum of my pulse, searching for the confession I won’t say aloud. It’s intimate. Dominant. Seductive. Like he owns the silence between us.

Everything inside me wants to press my lips to his and lose myself in the fire I know is waiting there. To feel his mouth claim mine with the same heat simmering in his gaze. I want to know if his kiss is just as dangerous—if it will undo me, burn straight through every wall I’ve built and leave nothing but ash and want behind.

My body aches, but then the part of me still thinking—the part that remembers how trust burns faster than oxygen—flares to life. A cold shiver races across my skin, dousing the heat like a water bomb dropped from a plane. It jerks me back to reality and I pull away from the edge I almost willingly stepped off. My heart pounds like I’ve just escaped something I wasn’t sure I wanted to survive.

Dax drops his hand, slow and reluctant, fingertips dragging against my skin like they don’t want to let go. But he doesn’t stop me. Doesn’t speak. Just watches—and for a split second, I swear his eyes flash gold, bright and wrong. It’s gone before I can be sure, smoothed over like nothing ever happened.

It’s just my imagination, I tell myself. It has to be. He doesn’t speak—just watches, jaw tight, eyes shadowed with heat and something deeper I don’t dare name. The silence between us is louder than any goodbye.

I turn and walk away without looking back. Behind me, I feel his restraint snap taut, like a leash on something feral held just this side of control. The tension clings to the air between us, charged and thrumming with everything he didn’t say—everything I almost let myself want.

My steps quicken, but it’s not the distance I need. It’s an escape. From him. From the burn he leaves behind without ever touching flame.