Achilles killed for his family and honor. But Tiernan? He killed because he fucking loved it.
Because she was alone, he’d decided to come early. He couldn’t stomach the idea of her sitting there all by herself.
He rounded the corner onto her street when he noticed flames dancing in the Callaghans’ open windows.
No. Not windows. Window.Tierney’s.
He screeched to a halt and threw the driver’s door open, sprinting down the street. Fire had already devoured her curtains and the edges of the wall.
Shit. Tierney would be there, in her bedroom.
He kicked the door down so hard it flew off its hinges. Tucking his mouth and nose into his shirt, he stormed inside.
The first level was smoky and scorching hot, but no fire yet. He had the good sense to run to the kitchen faucet, tear off his jacket, and soak it in water before donning it again. Then hetook the stairs three at a time and headed straight to Tierney’s room.
He knew Igor must have been behind the fire. The pakhan. That damn fucking monster came to finish the job on the twins’ birthday.
Achilles was going to kill him.
It’d be the first thing he’d do as the new don.
Declare war on the Bratva and obliterate it for what they’d done to his girlfriend.
No, to his futurewife.
The fire seemed to be coming from her room. He’d have to walk through it to reach her if she was still inside.
He didn’t hesitate.
Covering his face with his forearm, he plunged inside. The fire pounced on him as if it were a living, breathing thing, nipping at his sodden jacket like a rabid animal. A spike of agony shot through his body everywhere he was exposed—face, ears, hands. The flames branded him, etching scars onto his flesh like pointy teeth.
Would she love him scarred? Ugly on the outside as he was on the inside?
The answer was irrelevant. Because he’d still love her, and he’d never let anything happen to her.
He found her curled on the corner of the bed, facing the wall, her back to him. The flames didn’t touch her. Like they knew she was made of the same elements. He scooped her up, his hands trembling so hard, he could barely feel them, and placed two fingers to the side of her throat.
She had a pulse.
It was faint, but it was there.
The little clean air he had in his lungs swooshed out in relief. He ripped off his wet jacket and covered her with it entirely.Then he picked her up, pressed her to his chest, and turned back to the door only to find he couldn’t see it past the flames.
To get out, he had to get through.
Inhaling a lungful of smoky air, he pushed forward, running into the fire.
He was burning alive for her and he couldn’t give half a shit. His entire being was focused on one thing—saving her.
As he charged down a stairway that crumbled beneath his boots into dust, giving in to the heat, he felt his skin pruning, curling at its edges, morphing him to look like the monster he’d long ago become.
The scent was unbearable. Like the back of a butcher shop.
His face. It was ruined. He knew without looking in a mirror. But it was his lungs that nearly failed him. They scorched so hot, the smoke inside them so thick, he couldn’t see himself making it past the door.
Do it. Not for you. For her.
He’d heard of parents finding Herculean strength to protect their children but had called bullshit on it. He now believed it. He’d probably inhaled too much smoke. Suffered burns too deep for recovery. But he was past pain and discomfort. A force of nature, he hugged her tighter, protecting her body from the heat and flames; God forbid her pristine skin suffer so much as a blemish. Down the stairs and out the door, where he collapsed onto the hail-caked front lawn, rolling back and forth to extinguish the flames on his body.
