Sirens blossom in the distance—security finally waking. I crouch, slap flex-cuffs on the groaning men, and drag them clear of the cache. Their faces stay in shadow; good, because one look at mine right now would scare them worse than any badge.
Her lips twitch, bitter amusement. “You’re bleeding.”
I glance at the shallow slice across my forearm—no deeper than a paper cut, but hot with the sting of steel and adrenaline. The wound hisses in the air, as if it knows it’s been seen, and then heat blooms beneath the skin, rippling outward in a shimmer of gold. One sharp flare—then the flesh seals, smooth and whole, as if it had never torn. Not normal. Not human. Not hidden well enough.
Her gaze snaps to it—no flinch, no denial. Her pupils dilate, breath catching, scent laced with fear and something richer, darker. It spikes in the space between us like flint struck against stone. I feel it coil through me, ancient and absolute—a song only my blood can hear. And hers answers it.
But security trucks are rumbling closer, and the hired trash won’t stay quiet long. I strip cell phones from the captives, smash SIMs beneath my heel, and toss the useless shells into the brush. No evidence worth seizing. These men are puppets,threads already burning away. Liv watches every move, sharp as a hawk, filing questions for later.
“Grab your samples,” I murmur. “We give statements once these two are officially in custody. Then you get three hours’ bunk time.”
She scoffs. “You really think I’m sleeping?”
“Command will insist.”
“I’ve stared down Command before.”
She shoulders past me to collect the jar of tainted fuel, chin high. Even exhausted, she radiates defiance and heat, a wildfire in human skin. The shimmer I caught earlier—the image of a mate-mark flaring in my vision—dances over her again, faint as moonlit smoke yet impossible to ignore.
Incident-Command Trailer
I sign the incident log—Kade Veyron, IA Safety Officer, Region 3. The name raises eyebrows, but no one questions it. Everyone here knows who I am. Blackstrike. My presence rattles more than it reassures, but they accept it. The badge is real. The story—smokejumper temporarily assigned as safety liaison—is just close enough to the truth to quiet suspicion. My credentials check out. My motives don’t. That’s the way I need it.
While the duty sergeant files chain of custody paperwork accounting for our two intruders, I slip into the cramped radio alcove. Screens glow green and amber: live drone telemetry from the night patrol. I tap into the feed using the override code Dax buried in the firmware. Heat signatures blossom across the Weaver Ridge sector. But farther east, near the old Fort Verde ammo site, I spot something else—patches of heat flaring inneat, unnatural shapes. Too uniform to be random. Too clean to be caused by natural burn patterns.
Someone is staging accelerants beside a federal munitions cache—deliberate, calculated, and suicidal if mishandled. Either they’re growing bold, or they’re desperate enough to risk igniting a powder keg that could level half the ridge. It tracks with the chatter Blackstrike intercepted:Cleanse the Phoenix. Burn the myth so it can’t rise again. Erase the evidence. Rewrite the legend in fire.
My sat-comm vibrates once. Dax Fane’s encrypted ping. I duck into the converted lavatory, lock the door, and hold the tiny projector against the metal wall. A ghost-gray text scrolls:
DAX: Chatter confirms Ignis moving product tonight. “Cleansing the phoenix.” Your sector hot. Fort Verde priority. Asset status?
ME: Asset secure. Foxtrot infiltration failed. Two captured. No IDs.
DAX: Federal audit team arriving early morning. Wrap recon before then. Extract intel or burn it. Your call.
Not enough to finish mapping supply lines and babysit a base full of greenhorns. I pinch the bridge of my nose, force calm. There’s a way—always a way.
ME: Rerouting courier Whiskey-Three to drop passive sensors in infirmary. Will piggyback audit team’s sat-uplink. Risk acceptable.
DAX: Acknowledged. Watch your six, Kade. And the girl.
The projection fades. I pocket the device, unlock the lavatory, and step straight into a wall of softness and sass—Liv, barefoot, arms crossed, and clearly unimpressed. My shoulder bumps hers—she swears under her breath—and I instinctively reach out to steady her. Not that she needs it. She holds her ground better than I do, while I end up braced awkwardly against the doorframe, looking like I just lost a bar fight with a towel dispenser. Definitely not my finest exit.
She raises a brow. “You hiding bodies in there, Veyron?”
“Protocol review,” I lie smoothly, stepping aside, but she doesn’t budge.
She plants herself in the narrow hall, a barricade made of bone and will, arms crossed, eyes daring me to push past. Even barefoot—her boots abandoned somewhere after the debrief—she radiates ownership of the space, grounded and unapologetically present. I stop short, the air between us charged and humming, her body language making it clear: this isn’t a hallway, it’s her line in the sand. And I’ve just stepped across it.
“Protocol for disappearing phones? Or for precog reflexes?” Her tone is light, but the fire in her eyes sparks hotter than campfire coals.
I school my breathing, force my focus higher. Don’t look at her mouth. It’s a command with no teeth—I fail instantly. Her lips are parted, flushed from confrontation, proximity, or both, and all I can think about is the taste of fire.
“I’ve buried enough partners to know when a tool becomes a liability,” I say, voice low and even, but the edges burn. Because I’ve also buried pieces of myself along with them.
“You move like you’ve buried more than that.”
A challenge. And a lure. The beast inside me uncoils, heat radiating through my chest, muscles tightening with the urge to claim, to test. I step in, slow and deliberate, crowding heragainst the plywood wall until the gap between us evaporates. The air thickens—heavy, electric, pulsing beneath my skin with a charge that won’t dissipate. Her breath fans across my jaw, quick and unyielding. She tips her head back, eyes locked on mine, posture defiant, chin up like she’s daring me to come closer. Not flinching. Not retreating. Just standing there—fierce, perfect, and entirely mine whether she knows it yet or not.
