Men reaching for my face was a trigger. A whole category of trigger that usually ended with me backing into walls and shutting down. It reminded me of awful things.
Hudson’s backhand. His grip on my jaw. The way Hudson’s fingers dig into my cheeks to force me to look at him.
I flinched.
The man in front of me stopped. His hand hovering an inch from my skin, waiting. Those colorless eyes read my face with patience and he didn’t move or push my boundaries.
He just held his hand there, open and still, letting me decide.
So I didn’t pull away.
His fingers cupped my jaw, cool against my overheated skin, barely touching. My pulse didn’t spike in fear and my body didn’t lock up.
Instead, my chest expanded with a feeling I couldn’t name.
Recognition.Bone-deep, irrational, terrifying recognition. My body knew him before my brain caught up, the way you walked into a house you’d never visited and knew where every room was.
I knew his name.
The way I had known the scent of brown sugar and autumn leaves or the candlelight against sharp angles, surfacing from a place I couldn’t access or explain.
“Solomon,” I said.
His thumb stilled against my cheekbone. A fracture ran through all that composure, devastating, there and gone. His breath caught, an inhale I felt against my skin, and for oneunguarded second his fingers pressed harder against my jaw with desperation.
“You don’t remember,” he said.
“Remember what?”
He didn’t answer. His hand dropped from my jaw with reluctance, his fingers curling at his side. Behind him, Lucian took a step closer, his hand twitching into a fist, jaw clenched with the effort of staying where he was.
None of them were looking at the burning bookshop anymore or watching the street.
They were all looking at me.
“We have to bring you to the hospital,” Lucian said. His voice was low, carrying the same unplaceable accent from my memory. The one attached to golden eyes and a thumb brushing my cheek. “Now.”
I was about to protest and be stubborn but my consciousness was slowly drifting.
The next thing I knew was the antiseptic smell, fluorescent lights, and the constant beeping of machines that made you feel sicker just being near them.
They brought me to the hospital.
It happened so fast. Now, I sat on a thin mattress in a curtained-off area.
Suddenly, the curtain rattled and a doctor stepped through.
“Ms. Maxwell. You’re lucky.” He clicked his pen and scribbled something. “Smoke inhalation is mild, some minor burns on your arms. We found an unknown compound in your bloodwork. Do you remember taking anything before the fire?”
“Just tea. Chamomile. From my own kitchen.”
“The compound is working its way out of your system. We’d like to keep you for observation.” He glanced toward the curtain. “Do you have someone to stay with tonight?”
Through the gap in the fabric, I could see them. The three firefighters from the rescue, still in the hallway, watching. The golden one paced while the pale one stood motionless against the wall and the dark-haired one stared through the gap as if he could see straight through me.
“Friends of yours?” the doctor asked.
“I don’t know them.”
