Page 9 of Let it Burn (Playing with Fire #1)

Lena

I pull into the clinic’s back lot just after nine.

The sky is pitch black, the kind that swallows sound and stretches forever.

A broken lamp buzzes overhead, casting a weak, flickering glow over the crooked security sign.

I park close to the entrance, my hand automatically locking the doors the moment the engine cuts off.

It’s too quiet.

Marla said the place had been packed all day—patients streaming in with flu symptoms, the phones ringing nonstop. But now? It feels abandoned. Like the whole world took a breath and forgot to exhale.

I grip the steering wheel for a beat too long, my body refusing to move even though I know I need to. Maybe it’s just the whiplash of re-entering the world after days of being cocooned in Zeke’s apartment, in Zeke’s arms.

His name alone sends a flush through me—soft and slow and heavy, curling low in my belly.

God, what is he doing to me? I’ve never felt like this before.

Not with anyone. Not even close. It’s not just that he’s strong or protective or beautiful in that hard, silent way.

It’s the way he looks at me like I matter.

Like I’m not just a woman who ran—but someone worth chasing. Worth keeping safe.

For the first time in years, I’ve let someone take care of me. And I like it. I like him . Like having him around and in my space.

Maybe I’ve been lulled into a false sense of security. Wrapped up in the comfort of coffee in the mornings and long, stolen glances in the kitchen. Of sleeping tangled up in him at night, listening to his heartbeat and pretending it was mine.

But the world outside Zeke’s arms still exists.

And now that I’ve stepped out of that bubble, I can feel it. That slow, creeping chill at the base of my spine. The fear that I’ve lived with for years.

I reach for my bag and phone, hesitating when my screen lights up.

No new messages. Zeke made me promise I’d text the second I got inside, but I haven’t even stepped out of the car yet.

I tell myself it’s fine, that I’m overreacting.

That I can send the text in thirty seconds, once I’m through the back door.

Still, my fingers tighten around my pepper spray keychain as I step out.

My sneakers crunch against the gravel, loud in the silence.

I scan the lot—nothing but shadows, the occasional glint of glass from the other parked cars.

The hairs on the back of my neck rise, and I quicken my pace, heels clicking faster against the pavement.

Almost there.

I’m steps from the door when I feel it.

A presence behind me—too close, too fast.

Before I can scream, a hand clamps around my mouth and another yanks me backward. My phone and pepper spray slips from my fingers and hits the ground with a sickening crunch. Panic claws its way up my throat as I thrash, kicking and twisting, but his grip is steel.

“I knew it,” a voice hisses in my ear. Hot, rancid breath against my skin. “You let him fuck you. After everything I did for you.”

My blood runs cold. My heart feels like it’s in my throat. It’s the voice that’s haunted me for months. The one from those messages. I try to scream, but his hand only presses harder against my mouth.

“You said you needed space,” he snarls. “You lied to me. You fucking lied, Lena. You’ve been holed up with your neighbor and fucking him for three days. You barely know him.”

I jerk my elbow back, aiming for his ribs, but he’s too fast. He catches me by the shoulders, slams me into the brick wall behind the clinic. Pain radiates through my back. My vision goes blurry, breath knocked out of me. My lungs scream for air. My head spins.

"You don’t belong to him. You belong to me."

I try to kick, but he pins my legs, one hand locking me in place. In his other hand, I see a flash of silver in the dark. A knife. My heart stutters.

For a split second, everything slows—the cold press of the blade, the sharp edge of fear clawing up my throat.

But underneath the terror, something else cuts through.

The clarity of these past few days.

I don’t want to die like this. I don’t want to live like this either—alone, afraid, always waiting for the next shadow to fall. I don’t want to keep pretending I’m fine when I’m not. I don’t need to sacrifice everything just to live, but more importantly.

I want Zeke.

Not just now. Not just to save me.

I want him always by my side.

Because life without him? That’s the loneliest kind of survival.

"Please, Jack," I whisper, forcing the words through the hand still clamped to my mouth. "You don’t want to do this. Just let me go."

He presses the blade lightly to my neck. "You think you can lie to me? Pretend you didn’t want me? After everything I did for you?"

"I don’t want you. I never asked you to follow me," I say, voice shaking. "You scared me. You ruined everything. You hurt people."

“Yeah, you can add Marla to that list."

My eyes widen. "What did you do to her?"

He grins, wide and deranged. "She’s in my car. In the trunk. Tied up nice and quiet. She lured you here like a good little puppet. Don’t worry, I’ll deal with her later."

Terror coils in my gut. My breath comes faster, panic clawing at my throat. I need to stay calm. I need to stall him tell him what he wants to hear. My fingers tremble as I slowly raise one hand.

"Jack, please. We can talk. Okay? Just... talk. I’m not going anywhere."

He relaxes slightly, just enough for me to move my foot. If I can just reach my keys, hit the panic button that Zeke gave me...

But then I hear it.

Heavy footsteps. Fast. Purposeful.

And Jack hears it too.

"What the—"

Zeke roars around the corner, a dark blur of rage and muscle. The second he sees me, pinned and pale, with a knife to my throat, his face contorts into something lethal.

"Get your fucking hands off her."

Jack turns, barely lifting the blade, when Zeke tackles him to the ground. I fall to my knees, gasping.

They struggle, fists flying, as Zeke pummels him.

"You touch her again, you’ll wish I’d killed you."

Sirens blare in the distance, growing louder. Someone must’ve called them. Maybe Marla got free. Maybe someone saw. I don't care. Zeke is here.

For a moment, everything stills. Zeke turns to me, eyes searching mine. “Are you hurt?” he asks, voice tight, concern etched in every line of his face.

I open my mouth to answer—

But Jack surges up with a snarl, knife flashing in the flickering security light.

I scream. “Zeke!”

He reacts instantly, shoving me behind him just as the blade slices across his forearm with a sickening hiss. His body jerks, but he doesn't fall. Doesn't even stumble. He grits his teeth, steps into Jack’s space, and takes the hit like it’s nothing, like protecting me is worth the pain.

Blood drips from his hand, but he grabs Jack by the collar and slams him into the wall so hard the brick cracks behind his head. The sound of impact is sickening, but not as sick as the way Jack grins through it all—wild, unhinged, like he’s enjoying this.

“You think she’s yours?” Zeke growls, voice like thunder. “You don’t own her. You never did.”

Jack tries to swipe the knife again, but Zeke grabs his wrist, twisting until there’s a wet crack and the blade clatters to the ground. Jack screams this time. Zeke doesn’t stop. He slams his fist into Jack’s face, once—twice—until I can barely recognize the man who’s haunted my life.

“Don’t kill him, it’s not worth it.” I gasp, grabbing Zeke’s bloody arm, crying so hard I can barely breathe. “You’re bleeding. I need to check your hand.”

That’s when I hear the sirens. Red and blue lights flood the lot as tires screech and doors fly open. Maddox is the first one out, his face hard as stone as he rushes toward us.

“Zeke!” he yells. “Step back! We’ve got him.”

Zeke’s chest heaves as he lets Jack drop to the ground, unconscious and bloody. He stumbles back, and I catch him. My hands are slick with his blood, my own body still shaking.

But when he looks down at me, all I see is softness in his eyes. “You’re safe now,” he murmurs, voice ragged. “He’s never touching you again.”

I nod. “Maddox, he took Marla. She’s in his car.” I say.

“I’ll go check.” He answers

My hands won’t stop shaking, but I force myself to breathe as I guide Zeke inside the clinic. The door clicks shut behind us, muting the chaos outside. It’s quiet here. Too quiet. My pulse is still thundering, but Zeke’s the one bleeding.

“Sit,” I whisper, pulling him toward the small exam room near the front. He doesn’t argue, just watches me with those fierce, worried eyes like I’m the one who got stabbed. His forearm is slick with blood, the cut angry and red.

I grab the gauze and disinfectant with fumbling fingers, the familiar routine grounding me. “This is going to sting.”

He smiles through the pain. “You’re bossy when you’re worried.”

“Shut up,” I murmur, pressing the gauze to the wound. He hisses softly, but doesn’t pull away. “You should’ve let the cops handle it.”

“Couldn’t,” he says simply. “Not with him near you.”

I glance up, throat tight. He’s looking at me like I’m the only thing in the world that matters.

“I’m sorry,” I breathe. “I should’ve waited. I shouldn’t have come alone—”

“Lena.” His voice is low, firm. “Don’t do that. This wasn’t your fault. He had no right to do what he did.”

“But you got hurt. You’re bleeding—”

“I’d bleed a thousand times if it meant keeping you safe.” That does it.

Something in me shatters—quietly, beautifully. My heart cracks open like it’s been waiting for this, for him . I press my palm to his chest, right over the fierce, steady beat of his heart, like I need to feel it, like I need to know it’s real. He’s real.

“I don’t know how to say this the right way,” I whisper, my voice trembling as I meet his eyes. “But these past few days with you… Zeke, it’s like I’ve been underwater my whole life and I’m finally breathing again.”

His gaze softens, and the way he looks at me—like I’ve just handed him the sun—is enough to bring the tears right to the surface.

He leans in, brushing his nose against mine, his breath warm and ragged. “Say it,” he murmurs, and I don’t have to ask what he means.

I swallow hard, my fingers curling into his shirt like I need to anchor myself to him. “I love you,” I breathe, the words barely a whisper but holding the weight of everything I’ve kept locked away.

He exhales like he’s been punched in the chest, like the air’s been knocked out of him by something sacred. “You have no idea,” he whispers, voice rough with emotion, “how much I’ve been waiting to say this to you. Lena… I love you so damn much it hurts.”

Then his lips find mine—and it’s deep and tender, like he’s been starving for this.

Like I’m the answer to every question he’s ever had.

His hands frame my face with aching care, thumbs brushing away tears I didn’t know had fallen.

He kisses me like he’s grounding himself, like I’m the calm after every storm he’s ever weathered.

And in that moment, I know—I’m his, and he’s mine.

Completely and irrevocably. And we can finally live our lives without looking over our shoulder.

He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against mine, his breath uneven. “If I don’t stop now, I’m going to kiss you until sunrise,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “And something tells me you need real rest more than you need me worshipping you against this clinic wall.”

A laugh bubbles up in my throat, caught somewhere between joy and leftover fear. I nod through the tears that won’t stop spilling down my cheeks. “I think we should go home.”

His smile is all soft edges and quiet promises. “Yeah, baby. Let’s go home.”