“Then we do it in two.” The first voice didn’t waver. “Move.”
A figure moved through the broken doorway in full turnout gear. Helmet, coat, the works. But he moved through the flames with a confidence that didn’t match anything I’d ever seen from a firefighter, and I’d watched enough news coverage to know they didn’t usually walk through fire with that kind of ease.
Behind him, a second man climbed through, taller, broader, already pulling his mask down as he assessed the room with efficiency that said he’d done this a thousand times.
The first one reached me. He dropped to his knees, brownish auburn hair slipping from his helmet, messy and tangled. He had gorgeous freckles across his nose and bright hazel eyes that shifted between green and gold as they locked onto my face.
Despite the fire and the smoke, and the fact that I was about to pass out, his whole expression flashed with relief.
“Hey, look at me.” His gloved hand cupped the side of my face, tilting it toward him. “Mira. Can you hear me?”
I coughed and nodded. My brain caught the important thing a beat late.
“How do you know my name?”
He didn’t answer. His eyes scanned me. “Are you hurt anywhere? Can you feel your legs?”
“I can feel everything. Unfortunately.” I tried to push myself upright and my arms gave out. He caught me before I hit the tile.
“Okay. I’ve got you.” His voice shifted, the cocky edge replaced by a steadiness that felt professional.
Almost.If it weren’t for the way his hands were shaking as he checked my pulse, his fingers pressing against my wrist with familiarity.
“You’re okay. I’ll get you out of here.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“You can yell at me outside. Right now we’re leaving.”
The man scooped me up, one arm under my knees, the other banding across my back. The fabric of his gear was rough against my cheek, and underneath it his chest was solid, warm, not shaking even a little under my weight despite the fact that his hands had been trembling ten seconds ago. His arms tightened around me, a reflexive pull that went beyond rescue protocol, as if letting go was the harder action.
For the record, I was not a small woman. I had hips and thighs and an ass that required its own zip code, and this man picked me up with the effort most people put into grabbing a bag of groceries.
God, it should not have been hot.
And I should not have been noticing how a firefighter smelled (brown sugar and autumn leaves, but I was definitely not checking) while being rescued from a burning building.
Yet here I was. Priorities in shambles. My survival instincts replaced by whatever part of my brain decided this was relevant information.
“Got her,” he said into his radio. “Coming out.”
The other man was already moving, pulling debris from their path with his gloved hands, throwing a shelf aside with one arm. I swear it should not have been physically possible.
He was enormous up close. Six and a half feet at least, dense with the kind of muscle that came from doing actual violent things over a long period of time. His helmet was off, and I caught military-short black hair, pale silver eyes that were almost colorless, and a scar running from his temple to his jaw.
His expression never changed. Not even once. He cleared their exit with brutal efficiency and didn’t look at me until the path was open.
But I felt my heart stutter when he looked at me.
Those pale eyes swept over my face with focus. He catalogued every scratch, every smudge of soot, every tear track with an intensity that made my breath catch, and his jaw went tight.
“She’s hurt.” Two words. Low, controlled, directed at the man carrying me.
“Smoke inhalation. Possible drugging. She’s lucid. Some minor burns.” The freckled one adjusted his grip on me, pulling me closer. “Let’s go.”
We burst through the broken back door into the night and the cold air hit my lungs hard enough to make me cough. Behind us, the bookshop creaked, the roof beginning to sag.
Everything I owned was in there.
