Page 16

SIXTEEN

Ember

Blaze knows. He knows how badly I want to be seen, to be something more than the street rat I’ve always been. To be someone who matters, someone worth protecting.

“You’re not the only one familiar with growing up on the streets.” He keeps his voice low like he’s letting me in on a secret, and then he leaves it there, dangling in the air, leaving me guessing what it means.

Before I can process, Blaze steps closer, the space between us shrinking. His gaze locks onto mine, intense and unyielding, like he sees straight through every wall I’ve ever built.

He leans in so close I can feel the heat of his breath against my skin. My heart races, my body frozen, caught between fear and something else I’m not ready to name.

For a second, I think he’s going to kiss me. The moment lingers, thick with tension, like the world’s holding its breath, waiting for what comes next.

Blaze pulls away, jaw tight, breaking the moment with a force that leaves me breathless. He turns, fists clenched, stepping back like he’s trying to rein something in.

My heart stumbles as I force a shaky breath, willing myself to focus.

It didn’t happen.

I imagined it.

But as I head into the living room, aspirin clutched in my hand, I sense him again. He follows me. I feel the weight of his presence just behind me, his heat close enough to burn, and no matter how hard I try to block it out, my mind keeps returning to that almost-kiss.

I wish it were real, but it wasn’t.

Was it?

Aria’s eyes widen as I approach, flicking between me and Blaze, standing just a step behind me.

“You okay?” she asks softly, suspicion lacing her tone.

I nod and hand her the aspirin, my throat too tight to trust my voice. Aria’s gaze shifts between us, her expression turning far too knowing for my liking.

Great. Just what I need—Aria playing matchmaker.

I shove the thought away, forcing my mind to find anything else to focus on that doesn’t involve the man standing too close behind me.

For some reason, my mind sticks on that tattoo. I’ve seen it before. Not in the warehouse, but somewhere else. Somewhere from my past.

Blaze settles into a chair across from us, his eyes never leaving me. The intensity of his gaze makes me want to squirm, to run, to spill every secret I’ve ever kept—to him.

There’s so much I should tell him, so many pieces of the puzzle hidden in the dark corners of my mind. The auction. The tattoo. The bite mark on Bruiser… No—not that one. That memory holds too much pain.

Unfortunately, old habits die hard, and self-preservation has always been my strongest instinct.

Snitches get stitches, and anyone who breaks that cardinal rule faces violent consequences.

As Blaze leans forward, ready to begin another round of questions, I curl deeper into my chair. The tattoo nags at me, a persistent itch I can’t quite scratch. It’s important, I know it is.

But why?

I catch Aria watching me, her brow furrowed in concern. She doesn’t know me, but even she can see I’m holding something back.

And Blaze …

Blaze sees right through me.

The safehouse suddenly feels too small, its walls pressing in on me. I long for the rush of city streets, the hum of traffic, and the freedom of blending into the crowd.

Blaze stands, stretching slightly. “I’ll give you two a moment,” he says before striding out of the room.

As soon as the door closes, Aria pounces. “You have to spill. What is going on with you and Mr. Tall, Dark, and Dangerous?”

“Nothing.” Heat creeps up my neck.

Aria snorts, clearly not buying it. “Please. I’ve seen less chemistry in a high school chemistry lab. He can’t keep his eyes off you.”

“Drop it.”

She holds her hands in mock surrender, but her eyes twinkle. “Fine, fine. But when you two inevitably hook up, I expect details.”

Before I can formulate a suitably scathing response, the door opens again. Blaze enters, carrying two shopping bags.

“Thought you might want to clean up.” He keeps his voice carefully neutral. “There’s a shower down the hall and another in the master. These were dropped off for both of you.”

He hands one bag to Aria, who peers inside with poorly concealed disdain. Her nose wrinkles slightly at the sight of the discount store labels, but when Blaze hands me the other bag, I’m frozen.

Clean clothes.

New clothes.

The concept is so foreign and unexpected that I can’t process it.

“I—I can’t,” I stammer, trying to hand the bag back. “I don’t have money for?—”

“It’s taken care of,” Blaze cuts me off, his voice gentle but firm. “Consider it part of protective custody.”

I stare at the bag in my hands, overwhelmed. My current clothes are threadbare, stained, and barely holding together. Rent is always late, and the luxury of new clothes is so far down on my list of priorities it might as well not exist.

Even washing what I have is a struggle—a quick rinse in the sink, hung to dry overnight, and hoping for the best. This simple act of kindness—or duty, or whatever it is—threatens to undo me completely.

“Thank you,” I whisper, my voice thick with an emotion I can’t quite name. I hold the bag of clothes close to my chest like it’s a precious gift.

Blaze nods, his eyes soft. “The shower’s all yours when you’re ready.”

As he leaves, Aria watches me, her expression unreadable. For once, she doesn’t comment, and I’m grateful for the silence.

I clutch the bag to my chest, feeling the unfamiliar texture of new fabric against my fingers. It’s just clothes, I tell myself, but deep down, it’s more than that. It’s a tiny glimpse of a world where people care, where kindness exists without strings attached.

And that , more than anything else that’s happened, terrifies me.

While I expect Aria to take her shower in the master suite, she heads for the one down the hall. It’s more luxury than I’m used to, and I feel incredibly out of place.

The bathroom door clicks shut behind me. I stand there, frozen, staring at the gleaming shower stall. When was the last time I had a proper shower? The concept feels as alien as the soft clothes in my arms.

I fumble with the taps, flinching as water sputters to life. Steam rises, filling the small space. The scent of real soap, not the harsh stuff from public restrooms, hits me like a punch to the gut.

Slowly, I peel off my grimy clothes. They fall to the floor in a heap of stains and memories I’d rather forget. The warm water hits my skin, and I gasp. It’s almost too much—the heat, the pressure, the sheer luxury of it all.

My fingers trace over an array of bottles: shampoo, conditioner, and body wash. The words might as well be in a foreign language. I uncap one, inhaling deeply. The fresh, clean scent makes my eyes sting.

I scrub at my skin, watching as layers of dirt swirl down the drain. It feels like I’m shedding more than grime—like I’m washing away years of neglect, survival, and invisibility.

When I step out of the shower, I feel raw and exposed in ways that have nothing to do with being naked. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

The bruises stand out starkly against my now-clean skin, a map of the ordeal I’ve been through, but it’s not the bruises that hold my attention.

It’s the person staring back at me.

I don’t recognize her at all.

But I do recognize the small, circular scar just below my collarbone. Can’t wash that away. It’s a scar I’ve had for years, one I usually keep hidden. One that matches the bite mark on Bruiser’s throat.

It was a gift from him. The memory intrudes without warning.

A condemned building. The stench of stale beer and sweat. A girl crying in the corner, no older than twelve. Bruiser, younger but no less cruel, his eyes gleaming with sick anticipation.

“Take me instead,” I pleaded, my voice cracking. “Let her go.”

The memory claws at me, threatening to drag me under. I dig my nails into my palms, the sharp pain anchoring me to the present.

I was fourteen. Just a kid myself, but in that moment, I became a shield, a sacrifice.

Bruiser took me, hard and rough, ripping my virginity from me like it meant nothing, but that wasn’t the worst of it. He stood over me, lording over his victory, and then… And then he charged the other boys five bucks a piece to have a go with me.

Bile rises in my throat. I lurch toward the toilet, retching until there’s nothing left but bitter acid and rage. Bruiser. The boy who stole my innocence locked me in a cage.

Will I ever be free of him? Hatred, hot and vicious, surges through me. It burns away the fear and the self-loathing, leaving behind a core of molten steel.

I’m sorry, Bruiser, but a horde of rats is too easy. You deserve something far worse.

I push myself up, legs shaky, but my resolve is iron-clad. I meet my gaze in the mirror, seeing not the scared girl I was but the survivor I’ve become.

Bruiser thought he broke me then. He’s about to learn how wrong he was. This time, I’m not running. This time, I will fight back.

As I stare at my reflection, at the damning evidence etched into my skin, I realize with sickening clarity: I’m more than a witness in this investigation.

I might be the key to bringing Bruiser down for good, but that kind of knowledge gets people killed.