Page 5 of Jagged Burn (Kidds Beach Fire Department #2)

Scars And Bruises

Stefan Grey

I keep my eyes on the road, knuckles tight around the wheel, because if I look in the rearview mirror again, I’ll crash this damn truck.

Anna’s curled up on the back seat, hair still damp from the rain, makeup smudged, and her cheek already swelling from where that bastard hit her.

I’ve seen a lot of shit in my time as a firefighter—burn victims, car wrecks, kids pulled out of houses when we were too late—but nothing makes my blood boil the way seeing her like this does.

The girl who used to tag along behind Matt and me, insisting she could play football if we’d just “throw the damn ball already.” The one who always slipped me half her Halloween candy because she said, “You like chocolate better than Matt, don’t even argue.

” That girl has been beaten down into someone I barely recognize.

And I fucking hate that I didn’t notice sooner.

“Are you okay back there?” I mutter. Stupid question. Of course she’s not okay.

“I’m fine.” Her voice is small, almost defensive.

I bite back a laugh that sounds more like a growl. “Bruises on your throat, a nose that might be broken, and you’re trying to tell me you’re fine? You always were a terrible liar, Annie.”

Her lips press into a thin line at the nickname, and I instantly regret it. I used to call her that all the time, back when things were simple. When she was just Matt’s kid sister, trailing after us, driving me nuts but secretly making me grin.

“Don’t call me that,” she says flatly.

“Sorry.” I clear my throat. “Anna.”

We ride the rest of the way in silence, tension filling the cab until it’s hard to breathe. When I finally pull into my driveway, the storm’s still coming down, lightning splitting the sky like jagged veins. Fitting, because my chest feels cracked wide open.

My house isn’t much. Just a one-story brick ranch on the edge of town, with an old oak tree that nearly touches the roof. I used to think it was too big for one man, too quiet. But tonight, it feels like the safest place in the world.

“Come on,” I say as I jog around to open her door.

She hesitates but then slips her small hand into mine. The contact nearly levels me. Warmth, trust, and something I don’t deserve all rolled into one.

Inside, I flip on the lights, leading her into my bedroom before I head straight for the bathroom, grabbing the first aid kit from the cabinet.

“Sit,” I tell her, pointing to the edge of the bed in my room.

Her eyes flash. “Don’t order me around. I’ve had enough of that.”

I freeze. Then nod slowly. “Fair point. Would you ... please sit? So I can take a look at your injuries?”

Her chin lifts like she’s daring me to push back, but after a long moment she lowers herself onto the quilt. I kneel in front of her, the kit open on the floor. When I reach for her face, she flinches before she can stop herself and my stomach twists violently.

“I’m not him, Anna.” The words come out rough, scraping against my throat.

“I know.” Her voice is a broken whisper, but her shoulders soften just a little. “I know, Stefan.”

I tilt her chin gently, wincing at the mottled purple blooming across her jaw.

My scarred hand looks monstrous against her delicate skin.

I see it in every reflective surface, every mirror—the melted, ridged flesh running from my temple down my cheek to my jaw.

Half of my body and face changed irrevocably in a single instant.

Most people can’t look at it for long. Hell, I can barely look at it myself.

But she doesn’t pull away. She just studies me with those stormy eyes, and I realize she’s not staring at the scar at all—she’s staring at me.

“You don’t have to—” I start.

“Don’t,” she cuts in. “Don’t you dare apologize for being the one who survived.”

My chest squeezes tight. I want to say something back, something smart, but all that comes out is a strangled laugh. “Guess we’re both a little broken, huh?”

“Jagged,” she corrects softly. “But not broken.”

Her choice of words hits me like a damn sucker punch.

Jagged. Like the burns that tore through me when that roof collapsed eighteen months ago.

Like the way my soul feels every time someone stares too long, then looks away.

And now, like the bruises patterned across her skin. Jagged edges cutting us both to pieces.

I clear my throat and busy my hands. I clean the cut on her lip, tape up her ribs where she winces, and when I brush my fingers along her wrist, I see fingerprints darkening the skin. My vision blurs red.

“He did this tonight?”

She nods once.

“I swear to God, Anna, if Matt hadn’t been there—”

“You can’t.” Her hand lands on my wrist, stopping me mid-sentence. “You’ll lose everything if you go after him. And then what? I can’t be the reason you lose your job. Or worse.”

I swallow hard, forcing down the rage. She’s right. Doesn’t mean I don’t want to hunt that bastard down and make him bleed.

When I’m done patching her up, I sit back on my heels. “You should rest. You can take my room. I’ll crash on the couch.”

“I’m not kicking you out of your bed.”

“Anna.” I let her name roll off my tongue slow, deliberate. “You’re safe here. That’s all that matters.”

Her gaze lingers on me, searching, like she’s trying to read all the things I’ll never say out loud. Like how I’ve loved her since we were teenagers but never let myself go there because of Matt. Like how every scar on my body feels less jagged when she looks at me like I’m not a monster.

Finally, she nods. “Fine. But only because I feel like I’m going to collapse if I don’t lie down.”

I chuckle under my breath and stand, offering her a hand up. “I’ll get you something to sleep in. Not sure I have anything small enough.”

She quirks one corner of her mouth. “Guess I’ll just have to drown in one of your t-shirts. Better than smelling like antiseptic and fear.”

There’s that bite of sarcasm I remember. My heart kicks against my ribs, harder than it should.

I hand her a clean t-shirt and sweats, then step outside the room to give her privacy. Leaning against the hallway wall, I drag my hand down my face. Jesus Christ. Having her here, in my space, wearing my clothes, is going to kill me.

When I finally check back in, she’s curled up on top of the covers, already half-asleep.

My shirt hangs off her shoulder, exposing pale skin and the edge of a bruise.

The sight guts me. What’s worse is the fact that her uncovered legs are bared for my gaze.

The curve of her ass peaks out beneath the fabric of my t-shirt and it takes every ounce of self-control I have to not touch that bit of exposed skin.

I stand there too long, watching her breathe, fighting the urge to smooth the hair back from her face.

To kiss her forehead like I’ve imagined doing a thousand times.

Instead, I force myself to turn away. I feel like a damn pervert, my cock pushing at the front of my jeans, but she has always had this effect on me.

From the living room, I can hear the storm rattling the windows.

I sit on the couch, staring at the ceiling.

Sleep won’t come, not with the image of Anna in my bed, not with the rage still simmering in my veins.

And not with the bone-deep certainty that this—her being here, me keeping her safe—is only the beginning.

Because no matter what it costs me, I’m not letting anyone hurt Anna again. Not her ex. Not even her own fears.

Not while I’m still breathing.