“Copy on the possible arson,” I reported back on the radio.
My heartbeat kicked up the way it always did when a call came through. Fire and I had a special yet odd relationship. It had been the verything that took my mother, but also the thing that brought me so much life and purpose.
I got out of my head and back to the task at hand as we moved in sync, the earlier issues a distant memory. I was exhausted, but adrenaline kicked in when I looked at my crew.
“Listen up!” I called out, my voice cutting through the controlled chaos of everyone suiting up. “Possible arson means accelerant, which means this scene could go sideways fast. I’m lead on interior search. Miller, you’re on ventilation: Bassett, water supply. Keith, if you’re done being in your feelings, you’re on exposure protection. And nobody plays hero today, understood?”
“Understood, Lieutenant,” Keith responded, struggling with his straps, probably still mad, and despite everything, I checked them. Personal beef stayed at the station. Out there, we all went home, or nobody did—even his trifling ass.
The engine roared to life as we loaded up. Five-thirty in the morning, and we were racing toward Millbrook Drive. As soon as we hit Walton Hills, the money showed itself—long driveways, perfect lawns, houses tucked so far back you needed a map to find the front door. But the glow hit us before the address did. Orange light leaked through the trees, thick black smoke climbing the sky, swallowing it whole. By the time we curved up the long driveway, the mansion’s east wing was already roaring, flames blasting out of windows, climbing the walls with vengeance.
“Lord have mercy,” Miller and Basset breathed beside me.
It never got easier, watching somebody’s life burn down in real time. Roofs could be rebuilt, but the memories stayed charred.
“Focus,” I snapped, jumping down from the engine and pulling my helmet on. The gear settled over me, familiar and steady. Chaos might be unpredictable, especially when someone wanted this place gone, but my response to it damn sure wasn’t. This was my territory. My element. I was good at this.
It was in my DNA to be honest. My father was the captain of the fire department in my hometown of Coupeville, a town of 45,000.
Rodriguez was already coordinating with the other units. He’d met us here after hearing the fire over the radio. “Primary search, east wing. The secondary team takes the main structure. Fire marshal’s en route for the arson investigation. Let’s confirm we’re clear before we let this thing eat itself.”
He caught my eye for half a second, giving me that quiet little nod we’d been trading for years. That’s how we moved out here — no speeches, nograndstanding, just trust. This crew wasn’t perfect, but they were mine, and they showed up every single damn time.
I moved toward the house, reading the fire the way I’d been trained—too fast, too hot, too concentrated. Somebody used an accelerant. The east wing was on the verge of collapse, and if it went, the whole structure would follow.
That’s when I heard the voice behind me, deep and commanding and completely out of place. Which was one concern, but the other was what it did to my body.
“What the hell y’all waiting for? That’s my house burning down!”
I turned around, and my whole body betrayed me. Just committed treason right there in front of God and everybody.
Hopefully, nobody noticed, I thought.
DaVinci Bryns was stalking toward my scene, and every single one of my five senses decided to clock in overtime. Six foot five of pissed off chocolate perfection moving through smoke, capturing the air around him with ease. Basketball shorts hanging low on his hips, compression shirt doing the absolute most.
“Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and all twelve disciples,” I mumbled.
I knew exactly who he was—star point guard for the Colorado Pinnacles, one of my father’s favorite players. He’d been keeping up with him since his rookie season. I’d become a fan as well, watching games with Daddy. I knew DaVinci’s stats better than I knew my own schedule. Just last week, I’d watched him drop forty against the Lakers. And just days ago, I’d asked Sametra about him on a hook-your-friend-up tip. Her boyfriend, Malik, was a friend of DaVinci’s.
He was now at my fire scene.
What were the chances?
But knowing someone from watching basketball and seeing them in person was different. At five-thirty in the morning, with fire reflecting off his dark skin like he’d been dipped in bronze, the nigga was screaming bad for your health. My health, specifically.
He was fine, created with precision and so much care, point-blank. Broad shoulders, thick, tattooed arms, that compression shirt achieving exactly what it was supposed to. His beard was lined up to perfection, even at this ungodly hour. He moved like he knew exactly what he was working with, all that training evident in every step. It was too much for five in the morning, especially with his whole house burning behind us. Even pissed off, even in chaos, he had that presence that commanded attention.My attention.It annoyed the hell out of me how good he looked when I was trying to be professional.
The gold gleaming in his mouth made my mouth dry, which was ridiculous because there was literally water everywhere. This man really had me in forty pounds of gear, feeling some way about his walk. His WALK. I loved a man with a stroll. The walk said it all, and his said he knew exactly what he was working with.
Get it together, Halima.
“I know this was Cassie’s deranged ass!” he growled, fist balling up, and even his anger was a sight to see.
The veins in his forearms told me he didn’t just work out; he worked out heavy. His whole body was tight, shoulders bunched up like he was two seconds from swinging, jaw working overtime like he was biting back words that would get him in trouble.
He was breathing hard; that compression shirt stretched tight across every cut, every ridge, showing off exactly what all that training and discipline bought you. His eyes held a dangerous intensity that should've made me step back, but instead, heat pooled low in my belly.
“Y’all just standing around while my shit burns down to the ground? Who’s in charge?”
