Page 27

EIGHTEEN

Killian

Caleb was driving—tight-jawed, eyes flicking to the rearview as if Jamie might combust again in the back seat.

I sat beside him, still tasting ash, my hand braced under his elbow to keep him upright.

He was half-slumped against the door, silent, his jacket stuck to his shoulder with blood and blistered skin on one arm.

His knuckles were raw, maybe from crawling, but no burns there. Maybe from fighting. Maybe both.

He stared straight ahead. Hollowed out.

My place was closer. Safer. I punched in the code at the private elevator and bundled him inside, holding him up when his legs buckled. Caleb followed, muttering about fucking idiots, but opening doors and helping where needed.

Once inside, I got Jamie to the couch, lowering him gently as he hissed through his teeth. His breathing was shallow and uneven. He didn’t complain. Didn’t scream. That scared me more than if he had.

I pulled out my phone and dialed a number I’d never had to use myself but had on speed dial.

Doc answered on the second ring, his tone as pleasant as always. “Someone dying?”

“Burns. Smoke inhalation. Blood.” I glanced at Jamie—eyes closed now, skin gray around the edges. “I need you to come to my place. Tonight.”

A beat of silence, then a sigh. “It’s fucking three a.m.; you’re gonna have to sweeten the deal.”

“I’ll double your usual.”

“Not enough.”

I clenched my jaw. “Ten thousand. Cash.”

“For a paper cut, maybe,” Doc drawled. “But burns? Blood? Risk of infection? Fluid therapy? You want me to lug my gear across town and play ER at the ass crack of the night? You’re in deep-pocket territory, sweetheart.”

“Doc—”

“I’m not a charity. Twenty. Final offer.”

I didn’t rise to the bait. “Fine. Twenty.”

“Smart choice. Send me your door code. I’ll be there in twenty.

In the meantime, strip whoever the fuck it is down, keep them warm, and elevate their legs if they get cold.

Don’t touch the burns, don’t pop anything, and for fuck’s sake, don’t give them water if they’re coughing—last thing we need is aspiration on top of everything else. ”

“Doc—”

He hung up without another word.

I shoved the phone into my pocket and sat beside Jamie on the couch. The air stank of smoke and scorched fabric. His lashes were clumped with soot. His fingers twitched as if his body didn’t know the fire was over.

I reached for his jacket, trying to peel it back gently. Caleb moved in beside me, crouched low without a word. Between us, we eased it off—slow, careful, but Jamie still flinched when the lining dragged across the burned skin on his arm. He didn’t make a sound.

His boots were next, untouched by the fire, but his jeans were singed at the hem, and they stuck to his skin in places. We stripped them off anyway.

Then came the shirt.

Or what was left of it.

Melted in places. Fused to the blistered skin beneath .

“Should we take it off?” I asked, voice low, almost hoping Caleb would tell me no.

He gave me a look, baffled and a little panicked. “How the fuck would I know?”

“Scissors,” I snapped. “Kitchen drawer.”

Caleb bolted. Came back fast.

Between us, we cut the fabric away in strips, working around the worst of it. Some parts peeled off clean. Others clung. Fresh blood welled up where the cotton tore skin. It dripped down his ribs, soaking into the white leather beneath him, and I—I didn’t know how to stop the bleeding.

“Doc’s coming,” I told him, and he responded immediately.

Jamie attempted to shove us away. “Fuck. Don’t want that a-ass-asshole anywhere… near… me.” Jamie coughed.

“Don’t fight me on this.”

“How much?” He cracked open his red and inflamed eyes. “How much?” He tried to get up, shouted at us, but fell back on the sofa, mumbling about antiseptic and things that made no sense. Like I was going to tell him how much Doc was charging—I didn’t have a death wish.

Doc arrived, pushing past Caleb, and my cell pinged with an alert. “Payment up front,” Doc ordered.

I scrolled to the link and sent him what he’d asked for, not even blinking at the amount.

Doc waited until something showed on his screen to say he’d been paid, and only then did he narrow his gaze at the blistered skin on Jamie’s arm.

Ugly, wet burns, red-edged, and I hated to think how much worse it could have been if I hadn’t dragged him out.

Then, he checked the bleeding on his shoulder and grunted.

“Shoulder needs stitches.” He poked at Jamie’s chest and lifted his arms. “No broken ribs. Burns seem okay, but I charge extra if I need to graft,” Doc muttered. “Hazard pay, if he bites. And double if he bleeds on my good coat.”

“Whatever.”

Doc’s eyes gleamed; money was his thing.

Jamie opened his eyes. “I d-don’t want Doc!”

“You’re burned,” I explained, and he tried to push Doc away, who grunted and forced Jamie’s arm down.

“I’m good,” he rasped, though the tremor in his voice betrayed him.

Doc pressed something caustic on raw, open flesh, and Jamie shrieked—sharp and guttural—his whole body arching off the couch. Tears streaked down his soot-smudged cheeks, hot and unbidden, and he scrabbled at the cushions as if he could claw his way out of the pain.

“Who the f-fuck is p-paying?” he choked out between sobs that cracked in his throat.

“I am.”

He looked at me like that was the worst thing I could’ve said.

Doc’s hands were steady, impersonal as he bandaged Jamie up as if it were a chore, working fast and rough.

For the burns, he flushed the worst of them with saline, then laid down silver sulfadiazine cream with the precision of someone who’d done this too many times to care.

Gauze was applied in thick layers, taped at the edges to prevent the blisters from breaking further.

When he reached the wound on Jamie’s shoulder—a gash edged in soot and blackened fabric—he cleaned it with antiseptic that made Jamie scream again, then used a skin adhesive to close the edges and stitched the worst of it without warning.

No anesthetic. No comfort. Just speed, efficiency, and the cold silence of someone who saw bodies as meat to be patched and moved.

“Nothing is as bad as it looks.” He shoved a bottle of pills across the table without looking twice. “Take two. Or don’t. Not my skin peeling off. Pain worsens, or you get dizzy—go to the fucking ER like a normal fucking person.”

“What do we need to do now for his injuries?” I asked, already knowing I’d regret it.

“Google burn care,” Doc said, and then, he was gone, the door slamming behind him hard enough to rattle the frame. All that remained was the stink of antiseptic and smoke and the sharp reminder of why I never wanted to call Doc again.

“I didn’t need saving,” Jamie hissed, already shoving upright. His face was drawn tight, but the fury in his eyes hadn’t dulled—not one bit. “And you called Doc? Of all people? I don’t have the money for that shit.”

“You’d rather we took you to the ER and put you on the radar for any unexplained fires?” I deadpanned.

“I’d rather die than have a fucked-up asshole like him jabbing me with needles and charging me for every breath I take!”

“Maybe I should have let you stay in the fire.”

“Maybe you should!” he shouted.

I know he wanted a reaction. Something he could shout to prove he wasn’t already unraveling—something to spark, control, and twist back into power on his terms. That need for resistance, for someone to push until he broke, wasn’t just about anger.

It was about permission to let go. But right now, whatever was in those pills was knocking him out, and I pointed to the bedroom.

“Bed.”

“Fuck you!” He tried to roll off the sofa, but he was wobbly, and grimaced in pain.

I tried to help, but he shoved me, and it was Caleb who caught him and held him upright as they headed for the bedroom.

Caleb helped to lay him down, fixed it so he had water next to the bed, and watched him succumb to sleep.

“What the fuck, Killian?” he asked me when he came back. “Why was he setting a fire, and why didn’t he get himself out?”

I wish I knew about the second part, but the first part was all too easy to understand. He’d wanted the fire and had chosen a property connected to Lassiter.

All I could do was shrug.

Then, I called Rio to tell him that Jamie was at my place, hurt, and that went down as well as a lit match in a powder keg.

Rio exploded—shouting, cursing, demanding why I hadn’t called him sooner, why was Jamie near a fire, and why I thought bringing him to my place and not straight to Redcars was a good idea.

What was it with all the questions right now ?

“You probably need to ask him why he was in a fire. But hey, not tonight, yeah? Let him sleep this off. I’ll call you in the morning.”

Rio muttered something and cursed. “Call Doc if you need to, we can cover it.”

“Already done. Already paid.”

“Fuck,” Rio snapped.

Yep. Fuck .