Page 157 of Burning For You

Until the article.

The taunt burned deeper than anything else. Skye acting like she was better than him now. Smarter. Above him. She wasn’t. She’d been born into the same hell, lived it just like he had. And she was going to pay for pretending otherwise.

Getting inside the house unnoticed was easy enough. He lived there. He knew every squeaky board to move around and spy on what was going on above him.

The voices were upstairs talking. Kind of calm. Almost soothing him, but then he realized what room they were in. What they might have found.

Panic took over. Instinct drowned out thought. He snuck into the garage, grabbed the red gas can, and emptied it across the living room, soaking the floor, the furniture, the base of the stairs. No way past it. No way down. He set the can down to not make a noise.

There was no more time. The match flared. He tossed it and ran.

There’d be no way to stop and stare and watch this one like he’d been doing the others.

He jumped on his motorcycle, hit the throttle and took off, his heart thundering, his mind already rehearsing the story on his way back to work, unnoticed, just another shift like always. No one would know he had ever left the building since he hadn’t clocked out. Everyone did it. Everyone stole the time and wouldn’t rat on another person.

Then he turned the corner.

A black pickup lunged into his path, purposely turning sideways in his way as the tires screeched.

Metal screamed. Rubber skidded.

He hit the pavement hard, sliding into the truck, his shout torn free, not from pain, but from fury.

The minute the text came in from Skye, Ash tore through the streets, following the location she’d sent, anger riding shotgun with fear so sharp it made his hands ache on the wheel. She’d done this alone. Again. And whatever she thought she was walking into, it was worse than she’d expected.

He turned the corner as he closed in on Sara’s home and saw a motorcycle racing toward him at breakneck speed in a residential area as if it had something to outrun.

A flashback of Skye saying Sean had a motorcycle had him swerving his truck in the rider’s path fucking the consequences.

He didn’t hesitate.

The motorcycle brakes slammed, it skidded, fishtailed, then dumped its rider across the pavement in a violent spray of sparks and sound. He was out of his truck before it fully stopped, hauling the man up by his leather jacket and ripping the helmet free.

Sean Murphy stared back at him, his eyes wild, his mouth already spewing curses as he swung.

This was the dick he remembered from over a decade ago. Not the guy he was pretending to be for everyone now.

“Get off me, you asshole⁠—”

He blocked the first punch and drove his fist into Sean’s jaw. Once. Twice. Again. He felt the crack of knuckle on bone but didn’t stop. He couldn’t. The roar in his ears drowned out everything but one thought.

Skye.

Then sirens wailed somewhere behind him. Smoke stung his nose and he froze.

He yanked Sean upright. “Did you hurt her? What did you do to Skye?”

Sean grinned through blood. “Too late,” he rasped. “You can keep me here… or save her. Your choice.”

His chest locked tight, his hands dropping away.

A squad car screeched to a halt beside them. Tate was out instantly, gun raised.

“He’s yours,” Ash snapped. “I’m going for Skye. Stay with him.”

“Fuck!” Tate shouted.

He knew that sound.