Page 36 of Through Any Fire (Any x #1)

C al shares the plan to raid the port on Thursday night. My fingers itch to go now, but he explains why we have to wait. I don’t like it, but I understand. All my thoughts turn toward Alice, and my heart breaks.

So, after spending an hour poring over the details of Callahan’s meeting with Rose, I find myself back in our room with a heavy heart. Everyone around me gets hurt, and I’m starting to wonder if I’m a magnet for heartbreak.

The cursor on my laptop blinks at me, and I stifle a groan behind my fists.

I rest my chin on my knee, my leg propped on my chair, and stare at the blank page, searching for words.

A quick email from Emma—my editor—told me she loved the conclusion of my last book.

It’s all building up to a war between rival families, and it’s hitting a little too close to home right now.

After about twenty minutes of staring at the screen, I let out a groan and slam the laptop shut.

It’s proving to be way too difficult to focus on what’s fiction when everything feels too real .

The sun dips low, painting an ethereal sunset over the clouds.

Pastel pinks and oranges melt together, fluffy wisps of clouds drift off farther and farther.

I cross to the bar cart and pour myself a drink.

Based on the conclusion of my meeting with Cal, there’s not much I can do right now, and it’s killing me.

They have a plan; they have the people. It’s all hinging on finding the right shipping container and waiting for Thursday night.

It’s the waiting that’s getting me. My knuckles are tired from being cracked, my scalp sore from the amount of times I’ve run a worried hand through my hair. Perhaps a drink will settle my nerves.

One drink later, I realize while it may not help with the anxiety, it does well to distract me.

I spend another fifteen minutes perusing a bookshelf, finally picking a copy of Romeo and Juliet.

It sends a jolt of excitement through me.

How did I miss this before? The spine is worn, suggesting I’m not the first to read it.

My fingers trail along the cracks, and I picture Callahan curled up in front of a fire with this in his hands.

It brings a forlorn smile to my face. I spend the rest of the evening reading the worn paperback, ignoring the heavy drag on my eyelids.

Finally, when the moon shines brightly into the room, I give in. I curl on my side under the covers and tell myself it doesn’t bother me I haven’t seen Cal all day.

When sleep finally drags me under, I feel the rustling of the mattress. The softest shift telling me that Callahan finally came to bed. It’s too late, I’ve already fallen asleep.

The next two days follow in the same manner.

As I try to write, I find my well of creative inspiration all dried up.

What’s usually an endless supply of ideas is now a barren pit of dusty ash.

So, I’ve spent the past forty-eight hours roaming the vast halls of the Keane residence, eating a few meals with Darla, and doing exactly what Matthias accused me of that first morning—snooping.

Unfortunately, I find nothing of consequence. I’m tempted to look through Cal’s office, but the man never seems to leave it—other than to sneak into his room late at night when I’m already asleep.

Thursday afternoon rolls around, and my nerves are fried.

My knee won’t stop bouncing, and my hair resembles a rat’s nest from the number of times I’ve hiked my ponytail up.

In times like this, when it feels like the walls are pressing in on me, I usually turn to my car or Strikers.

But seeing as how my car is at the condo, and I haven’t made up with Jude yet, I’ll have to settle for the gym here.

The thought of Jude brings an extra weight of guilt down on me. In the past several weeks, my life has been in jeopardy more times than I can count. It doesn’t escape me that all he wanted was for me to be safe, something he’s always been vocal about, but I couldn’t see it at the time.

It’s a lofty realization, one that means I owe him an apology.

But it will have to wait until this is over. I can’t bear the thought that trouble might follow me right to Jude’s doorstep. He doesn’t deserve it, and I could never endanger Jenna and the rest of the gym by rushing over there.

So instead, I spend the next hour on the treadmill, pushing myself faster and faster until sweat drips down my spine.

My feet pound against the belt, my pulse thrumming in my neck with each mile.

When I can’t take it any longer, I head upstairs to shower.

The sun is setting—another hour closer to the ambush.

After scrubbing away the last of my grime and a layer of skin, I wrap myself into a thin satin robe tied at the waist. The cut on my cheek is almost healed, and it doesn’t look like it’s going to scar.

My hair drips onto my shoulders, so I towel it until it’s dry enough, then I pour myself a healthy glass of whiskey.

It seems the amber liquid is my only friend these days.

The first sip burns as it slides over my tongue, but I relish the sting.

It’s something Cal taught me when we were young—to savor the moments that are fleeting, even if they burn you.

The thought stills my hand, but only for a moment.

I cross the room and settle onto the couch, then pick up the worn copy of Romeo and Juliet again. I’m about to finish when Cal finally enters the room.

His steps are soft, and I don’t look up from my page. He comes to a pause, standing next to my shoulder as I continue to ignore him.

“Ren.” His voice is soft, a gentle reminder of who he can be when he wants to be.

I let loose a sigh and take another sip of my whiskey. It warms my throat, settling low in my belly.

“Ren, please.”

Finally, I look up. A frown mars his handsome face, souring my stomach. “You can barely look at me. Tell me, what happened?”

I scoff a harsh laugh. “We don’t have enough time in the world to even start.” With that, I return to my book, but Cal pulls it out of my hands. He doesn’t speak, he just waits for me to acknowledge his presence.

With a roll of my eyes, I finally meet his gaze. “You went to Abstrakt.”

His brows pinch, and his eyes narrow.

“To see Kyra .”

Eyes widening, realization sparks behind them.

His throat bobs, and he scrubs a hand over his jaw.

It’s darker than usual, the stubble after a long day shadowing his face.

He looks good. Too good. And it kills me.

Because here I am, still sleeping in his bed, even though I swore he’d never hold a place in my heart again.

But somewhere over the last few weeks, he weaseled his way back in.

With each stolen touch, each lingering glance, I didn’t— couldn’t —know I was already a goner from the moment I agreed to this insane plan.

I cross to the French doors to watch the moon.

A bright, full moon illuminates the bedroom.

Cal drops his jacket, and it lands softly on the wood floor.

His steps sound behind me. In the next breath, he crowds my space, blocking my view of the moon and cupping my face with his calloused hands.

His thumbs swipe over my cheeks, so gentle and so familiar.

His throat bobs. “Ren, I didn’t betray you.”

I try to tug my face from his hands, but his hold tightens.

It’s firm, but not painful, and my skin flushes from the dominance.

Cal’s eyes search mine. My pulse quickens, the heat from the whiskey flushing my face.

The quiet stretches as we stand in the darkened room, no other words exchanged besides a silent pleading behind his brown gaze.

“ I didn’t .”

Each time he says it, it’s like a blow to the chest.

“Don’t fucking lie to me, Callahan. I saw it with my own eyes. Both times.” Outrage tingles in my fingertips. They tremble at my side as Cal continues to hold my face.

Cal’s frown deepens. “Both?” he asks. He shakes his head as if shooing away a thought and continues. “Ren, you’re not hearing me. I never betrayed you. Not then, and certainly not now. Why would you think I’ve cheated now? ”

His confession mixes with the light buzz from the alcohol, and I struggle to make sense of his words. He never cheated? A sardonic laugh erupts from my chest.

“So now you’re a liar, too?” Another laugh, this one of pure, unadulterated rage. A snarl slides onto my face, and I wrench myself from his grip.

“Loren, I haven’t—”

I cut him off with a wave of my hand, heading toward the closet. “Don’t even bother.”

A firm grip grabs me by my bicep and yanks me back to his chest. He doesn’t let go.

“Do I need to get on my knees and beg? Crack open my chest to show you how broken I am?” His voice is sharp, so close to snapping. “Is that what you need from me?” His chest rises and falls with tight breaths, telling me just how thin his patience is running.

His words linger in the dim room. Tension sparks where his grip tightens, and I suck in a silent breath. The heat of his firm body scorches through my satin robe, muddling my senses. I hum noncommittally. “It would be a start.”

I’m thankful he’s at my back because I don’t have the fortitude I used to. I’m already so close to letting go the pain I’ve carried for so long. It’s exhausting, and I’m ready to leave it in the past.

Cal’s other palm curls against my hip, squeezing tightly.

When his forehead gently presses against the back of my head, my eyes close on instinct.

It’s as if he can’t bear to let go of me long enough to follow through with his offer to get on his knees and beg.

Truthfully, I wouldn’t mind him on his knees before me, but right now, I don’t want him to let go, either.

With the realization, I can’t help but lean into his hold.

My head tips back the slightest degree to rest on his shoulder.