Page 17

Four years ago, I watched a fire take everything I'd built my life around.

My career.

My reputation.

The certainty that being good at my job meant I could always make a difference.

A man died in that building, and no matter how many times I went over the investigation afterward, I couldn't change that.

I still remember standing outside the wreckage, knowing something was wrong.

Knowing somebody had deliberately started that fire.

Nobody wanted to hear it.

Eventually, they made damn sure I couldn't say it anymore.

I look down at the woman in my arms.

I'm not losing somebody else because I missed something.

Engines approach.

Finally.

Grim's SUV tears up the driveway, Striker's bike close behind.

Razor jumps out of the passenger seat with his medical bag.

Our club medic drops beside us.

“Talk to me.”

I give him everything.

He checks her pulse, pupils, and breathing, his expression growing serious.

“Could be toxic exposure,” he says. “Could be something else. How long was she inside?”

“Maybe fifteen minutes. Twenty at most.”

“Anything running? Heater? Fireplace?”

“No. Nothing.”

His gaze flicks toward the cabin.

“Keep everybody out of there.”

“Already planning on it. Help her first.”

“Working on it, brother.”

He gets oxygen on her and continues his assessment.

I hover close enough to earn a sharp look.

“Torch. Give me some room.”