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LIV

A fter the Bitterroot incident, command redeployed me south to Arizona. Fantastic. Nothing says 'we believe in your competence' the way a demotion followed by a reassignment to the desert’s favorite fire sandbox does.

Today, even the sky feels volatile—streaked with smoke, laced with the acrid sting of scorched brush. Heat radiates off the tin roofs of the training center, warping the light into a dull, uneasy glare. Perfect. A sky like that never bodes well.

I roll my shoulders, trying to shake off last night’s restless hours—and the way Kade Veyron’s gaze haunted every unfinished dream. My badge still carries the scorch of demotion, and the only thing left to do is work. Hard, clean, undeniable work.

“Morning, Monroe.” Battalion Chief Wilder steps out of Logistics, clipboard already bristling with forms. His brisk nod is all business—no pity, no scorn. I’ll take it.

“Sir.” I keep my chin level, my spine straight and get on with it.

He gestures toward the asphalt yard where twenty‐odd rookies mill around the rigs in bright yellow Nomex. “Weaver Ridge demonstration goes live at oh-eight-hundred. Your burn file’s approved… provisionally.”

Provisionally. Like my competence comes with a ticking fuse. I swallow the retort I want to make, and instead, answer, “Copy that.”

Across the lot, Kade stands beside one of the fire engines, arms folded, alone and aloof.

The others in camp don’t even try to hide their intimidation.

He and his crew are legends. The moment his gaze lands on me, heat surges along my throat—half adrenaline, half something darker, sweeter.

Last night’s encounter hovers between us, alive and breathing.

He inclines his head—a silent question. Ready?

I nod in answer. Always.

Weaver Ridge Back Line

“Watch the anchor points, watch the wind aloft, and remember: the model is a guide, not gospel.” My voice carries over the training gulch, sharp enough to slice through the hum of generators.

I stand on the black flanked by hotshot hopefuls hauling drip torches and Pulaskis.

Ahead, a narrow test corridor cuts through the terrain, bordered on both sides by safety zones already cleared by fire.

Rookie Charlie Diaz—fresh academy patch, boots so new they still squeak—hovers at my elbow, tension in his jaw.

I note the unease in his posture, a flicker of instinct that makes my spine itch.

I don’t have time to dig into it now, but I don’t dismiss it entirely.

It lodges somewhere in the back of my mind, a live ember waiting for air.

“Something feels off,” he mutters, barely audible under the rotor growl of a passing recon helicopter.

“Define off.” I keep my gaze on the tree line where pinyon and juniper wait for flame.

“I’m not sure.”

I don’t have time for rookie hunches or misgivings right now. “Then we stick to procedure. We test, we burn low and slow.”

He nods, unsettled.

“Monroe, you’re good to light.” The safety officer’s voice crackles through my headset.

“Copy. Ignition sequence starting.” I thumb the valve of my torch, tilt the spout, and a lazy ribbon of orange curls outward, kissing the grass. Fire snakes along the call line, obedient as a dog on command. For a heartbeat it behaves—just a training glow licking downslope in textbook elegance.

Then it doesn’t.

Flame erupts with a deafening whoosh, rising in a savage burst that roars to life like something alive and enraged. It towers over the rookies—taller than their helmets, taller than the rigs—twisting into pillars that snarl and snap, writhing like fire-born beasts loosed from the bowels of hell.

The heat hits me like a battering ram. Not just hot—punishing. It punches into my chest, rips the breath from my lungs, and shreds through what little sense or reason I have left. My ears ring. My vision narrows.

Fire curls outward in radiant, clawed spirals—wild and hungry—tearing at the oxygen with a sound that’s more scream than crackle.

Even behind the layered shroud, the heat sears.

It licks across my cheeks, bites into my jaw, branding me with the memory of burns long healed but never forgotten.

My skin remembers the pain, and somewhere deep beneath it, the ghosts remember too.

“Shut it down!” the safety officer barks, already tugging hose line.

“Abort! Everyone to the black!”

I swing my arms, barking orders, herding trainees like scattered cattle toward safety.

The fire doesn’t follow rules—it lunges sideways, hungry and wild, riding a gust no one predicted.

It snaps through the tree line, chasing smoke trails like prey.

Pine bark detonates with sharp, percussive pops, each one a warning shot from the inferno itself.

Embers shoot skyward like tracer rounds, stinging the air with heat and the smell of burning pitch, painting the morning with chaos and fury.

Diaz coughs. “That’s not normal!”

No kidding.

I yank the emergency flare from my belt—red smoke plumes overhead, the universal abort signal.

Crews on the ridge open valves; foam arcs across the gap, dousing the worst of the flare.

After ten grinding minutes the fire whimpers into submission, sulking in steam and angry crackles.

We’ve lost only three acres of test ground, but the scorch on my record will be harder to scrub.

Post-Incident Review

Fluorescent lights flicker in the Command Quonset casting keening shadows across a U-shaped table of clipboards and tight jaws.

Investigators from State Forestry lean in, pens poised like scalpels.

Chief Wilder plants his fists on the metal rim.

I sit at attention on the hot seat, shoulders prickling under the weight of judgment.

“Your model predicted a two-foot flame length,” Inspector Graves says, glasses sliding down his nose. “We saw columns exceeding fifteen. Explain.”

“The wind veered six degrees to the east,” I answer steadily. “Unforecasted microburst funneled upslope.”

Graves taps his pen. “Meteorology recorded no such anomaly.”

“I was standing in it,” I bite out before I can soften the edge.

Across the room Kade lounges against the side wall—civilian jeans, black T-shirt stretched over too much disciplined muscle.

He says nothing, yet the silence feels like backup, as if a hand is braced between my shoulder blades.

Under the table my fingers twitch with the urge to acknowledge him and the comfort lodged in his presence. Instead I keep my stare on Graves.

Chief Wilder clears his throat. A leaden weight settles in my stomach.

I brace, instinct already telling me what’s coming won’t be good—like catching the scent of scorched earth just before the fire line crests the ridge.

“We also recovered residues of an accelerant, methyl-naphtha, in the hottest patch.”

Graves swivels toward me again. “Care to account for methyl-naphtha in your saw-mix drums?”

The rookies stiffen. I shake my head once—calm. “We mix diesel and gasoline on site. No naphtha. If it’s there, it wasn’t placed by any member of my crew.”

Kade’s gaze sharpens, but he still remains silent.

Watching. Measuring. I wish he’d speak—cut through the bullshit with that carved-from-bedrock voice and shatter the performance Graves is pretending to call a hearing.

But part of me respects the boundary. This is my fire—my trial, my reckoning—and even if the smoke stings and the air’s too tight to breathe, I’ll stand in it alone if I have to.

Graves clicks his pen shut. “Effective immediately, Liv Monroe’s burn permits are suspended pending investigation.”

The words detonate louder than the burst tanks, a charge set beneath my ribs.

My pulse slams at my ears, a deafening roar of disbelief and humiliation.

Heat rushes to my face, my throat tightens—but I lock my spine in place, refusing to give them even a twitch of reaction.

I’ve stood inside walls of flame and didn’t flinch. I won’t do it now.

Chief Wilder adds softly, “You’ll remain on training support—no live fire—until cleared.”

“Understood.” The word claws its way up my throat, coated in bitterness and soot. It scrapes past my teeth like ash off a scorched ridge, but I say it anyway, heavier than I could have imagined.

The meeting adjourns in terse shuffles. As the inspectors file out, Kade finally unfurls from the wall, crossing to block my path.

Up close, he’s a wall of silent intensity, radiating the kind of heat that makes your skin remember things it shouldn’t.

I have to tilt my chin to meet his eyes, but it’s the gravity of him—the absolute stillness—that steals my breath and tightens my core resembling a struck match.

The nearness sparks something low and molten inside me, a warning flare I don’t dare name.

“You held that line.” His voice is low, threaded with an accent older than any wildland crew. “They can’t touch the truth.”

“They can stall it.” I exhale through my nose. “Which means I’ll be relegated to classroom slides while someone out there’s tampering with fuel drums.”

“I’ll look at the caches.”

“No.” The protest fires out reflexively. “I’ll be auditing them myself. Before dawn. Solo.”

His eyes narrow. “You plan to wander gear depots in the dark, after a full day’s work. Alone.”

I cross my arms, jaw tight. Alone is how I rebuilt.

How I stay standing after watching my entire crew die, after the brass cut me loose, and after the man who once swore he’d love me forever demanded I return the ring and walked out without a word of defense.

This is how I reclaim control—by staying sharp, staying quiet, and staying the hell on my feet.