“Saxon, over here?—!”
I whip around.
He’s across the parking lot—helmet clipped to his belt, fire jacket half on, black T-shirt still visible. His crew is scrambling behind him, sirens wailing, but he’s already sprinting toward the building. Not toward the fire. Toward my voice.
“SAXON!” I sob. “SHE’S IN THERE! JUNIE—she’s—she’s in?—”
He’s in front of me before I finish, hands gripping my arms hard enough to anchor me to the earth.
“Where?” he demands. “Where was she?”
“Near the dessert table—down the left hall—she—she?—”
He cups my face, forces my gaze on him. “I’ll get her. I swear to God, Briar, I’ll get her.”
And then he runs into the hotel without waiting for backup. No hesitation. No fear.
Not as a firefighter. As something else entirely—something raw and feral and driven by a force even stronger than duty.
I collapse to my knees. “Please,” I whisper. “Please find her.”
Time stops meaning anything. Smoke pours out of broken windows. Flames spit from the roof. Parents cry. Kids wail. The world blurs into a nightmare. Every few seconds I think I hear Junie’s voice—but it’s always another child. Every few seconds I think I see Saxon—but it’s always another firefighter. My vision swims. My knees shake.
“Come on,” I whisper, rocking forward. “Come on, come on…”
Then a silhouette appears in the smoke.
Large. Broad-shouldered. Stumbling slightly.
My breath catches.
He emerges from the haze?—
Saxon.
Carrying Junie in his arms. Her face is buried in his chest. Her fist clutching the collar of his jacket. He’s coughing, limping,soot streaked across his skin, shirt singed at the shoulder. His forearms are blistered and raw. But he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t falter. He holds her like the most precious thing he’s ever protected. I scream and run to him, sobbing.
“JUNIE!”
He drops to his knees the moment I reach him, setting her gently in my arms.
She clings to me, crying. “Mommy!”
I choke out a laugh-sob, burying my face in her hair. “Are you hurt? Baby, are you hurt?—?”
She shakes her head. “Just scared.”
I cradle her tight. Then I look up at Saxon. He’s gasping. Burned. Covered in ash. Chest heaving like he ran through hell and back. He meets my eyes then and something inside me breaks.
“Saxon,” I whisper.
He tries for a smile. “Told you… I’d get her.”
A sob punches out of me so hard I fold forward, reaching for him instinctively. He catches my hands. His palms are rough. Trembling. Hot from burns. But he squeezes my fingers like he needs the contact as badly as I do.
“You went in alone,” I breathe.
His jaw flexes. “She’s yours.” He pulls his hand from mine and presses it over his chest. “And she’s mine,” he says simply.
