"Jesus. I remember him. He used to watch our training runs and said he was studying technique for the academy. Always had a camera."
"He was documenting even then, and they should have caught him. Somehow, he slipped through the cracks." My fingers traced the psychological evaluation. "The assessor noted his unusual fixation on physical transformation through extreme conditions."
"The warehouse fires." Marcus straightened, tension radiating from his spine. "The gym. They weren't about watching me train. They were—"
"Tests." I forced myself to meet his eyes. "He's been evaluating your response to escalating pressure. Studying how you push through pain and maintain control when everything's burning around you."
"Because he wants to break that control."
"No." The word came out sharper than I intended. "He wants to prove you're worthy of his transformation. Every fire, everymessage—they're steps in what he sees as your journey toward transcendence."
Marcus's hand landed on my shoulder, steadying me. "James. Breathe."
I hadn't realized how fast my heart was racing until his touch anchored me. "You don't understand. The Olympia victim... they found evidence of systematic exposure to increasing temperatures. It was like someone was trying to build their tolerance. Training them to—"
"To become one with the fire." Marcus's grip tightened fractionally. "Like he tried with those trainees."
The overhead light caught the fading bruise on his throat—evidence of how close I'd already come to losing him. My fingers reached up without permission, brushing the mark. "We have to stop him."
"We will." His other hand caught mine where it rested against his pulse. "But first, you need to tell me what's really scaring you."
The question startled me. I tried to step back, to retreat behind analysis and evidence, but Marcus's grip held firm.
"What's scaring me?" My laugh sounded hollow. "A certified psychopath is turning your training into performance art. He's documenting every lap, every mile, every moment you push past normal limits. And I can't—" My voice cracked. "I can't stop seeing patterns. Can't stop calculating how each fire brings him closer to his endgame."
Marcus's thumb brushed my wrist, grounding me. "You're not responsible for his obsession."
"Aren't I?" The words spilled out. "Every time I analyze a scene and document a pattern, I feed into his narrative. Helping him refine his methodology. And the whole time, I'm terrified that my professional detachment, my need to understand everything through data and evidence, is going to get you killed."
"Look at me." His voice had the same quiet authority he used to direct his crew. When I met his gaze, the intensity there stole my breath. "It's not only analysis anymore. It hasn't been since that first warehouse scene."
"That's what scares me most." A massive lump grew in my throat. "I thought I was scared of losing you. But that's not it. I'm scared because, for the first time, I want something more than answers. I want you. And I don't know how to survive if this case takes you from me. Every time you push yourself in training and chase a lead without backup—I'm calculating odds I don't want to know."
His hand moved to cup my jaw, calluses rough against my skin. "Then stop calculating. Stop trying to protect me by pushing me away."
"Marcus—"
"No." His thumb traced my lower lip. "You want to know what Raines doesn't understand? What all his surveillance and documentation missed?"
I couldn't speak, caught in the gravity of his touch.
"I don't push my limits because I'm chasing some kind of transcendence." His voice dropped lower. "I do it because there are things worth fighting for. Worth protecting."
The space between us disappeared by inches.
"James," Marcus whispered my name. "Stop thinking. Just—"
His lips pressed against mine with devastating precision. There was no hesitation this time, no pretense of professional distance. Just raw need and the weight of everything we'd been fighting.
My hands fisted in his shirt, analysis falling away as his teeth scraped my lower lip. The files scattered as he lifted me onto the table, evidence spilling forgotten to the floor.
"Wait." I managed to pull back, though my body screamed at the loss of contact. "The case—Raines—"
"We're standing in the middle of the fire, James. It's burning whether we move or not. So maybe, for now, we hold on to something that isn't trying to destroy us." Marcus's voice was rough against my throat. "Right now, I need you to stop being Dr. Reynolds. Stop analyzing. Just be here."
"I am here. That's what terrifies me."
He pulled back enough to meet my eyes. "Why?"
