Flame (Dragon Triad Duet Book 2)

picture frames breaking one by one. “I know the assholes you cater to. Bastards who strongarm barely legal girls into sex. Who torture them. Then kill them to protect their fucking reputations—”
“Faith was a lying little cunt,” Gino snarls. “She stuck her nose into where it didn’t belong. But it’s not like you have any proof.” He deliberately emphasizes the word with a hiss. “Do you, Rafael? Hidden in this rundown piece of shit? Keep looking,” he snaps, presumably to his men.
“Go fuck yourself,” Rafe snarls. “If she did give me anything, do you think I’d be dumb enough to keep it here?”
“You better hope not. Though maybe you need a little convincing to tell the truth? Boys. Hold him.”
Thuds erupt, alluding to a struggle, but sheer terror roots me in place. I can’t move. Can’t breathe…
My gaze drifts to the counter, and the box resting there, as my ears strain for a key phrase. Would I have the strength to grab it even then? I try to make my hands move, but my fingers twitch in place and nothing more.
“Fuck,” Rafe snarls, and the pain in his tone sets every nerve on red alert. He’s hurt.
I’m already on my feet, scrambling for the counter. I wrench open the box and clumsily grasp the object inside it. As I turn to the door, a shout rings out.
“Fuck! You motherfuck—”
“Shit!” Another man says. “Someone must have called the fucking cops.”
Cops. That word spurs my paralyzed limbs into motion, and I creep toward the window. Sure enough, a lone cruiser idles alongside the curb. I’m not sure if it’s the same one that used to live in Branden’s driveway, polished to shine.
From this height, I can’t make out the driver or anyone in the passenger seat. Liam?
The sound of a door slamming reinforces the more pressing danger. Three figures trickle from the store and stroll across the street. One man, in particular, has his hands in fists, visible from even here. A substance glistens over the prominent knuckles, and my mind goes blank with recognition. Blood.
By the time I regain my senses, I’m already inching down the short hallway on the first floor, tensing in expectation of what I might find beyond it. The smell reaches my nostrils first—coppery, fresh…
“R-Rafe?” From my vantage point, I can only make out the shattered front door at first—the source of much of the glass scattered across the floor. Anxiety builds with every step I take.
Near the counter, I spot a sight that almost makes me drop the item in my grasp. Rafe—upright, clutching at his chin. Overwhelming relief blinds me to anything else. Like self-preservation. I pick through a sea of broken glass to reach him on bare feet, heedless of the risk.
“Are you okay?” The words have barely left my mouth when I realize that he isn’t. Blood is gushing from his lower lip. A lot. He may need stitches, though I’m already setting the gun aside and winding up the hem of his shirt to use as a makeshift cloth.
“I’m fine,” he grunts, shrugging off my attempts to dab away the blood—until suddenly he isn’t. We’re face to face, toe to toe, and I suck in a breath, my hands frozen with his shirt lifted high enough to expose my stomach. For once, he drops the bravado. His face reveals everything—every emotion he’s hidden so well until now.
Fear.
“They were here about the fire,” I deduce, dabbing at his jaw as I remember how to move again. “And Faith.”
He dodges my touch, his eyes narrowing. “I guess I told you to eavesdrop this time, so the joke’s on me.”
“Yes,” I say thickly. “So, stay still.”
He grudgingly submits to the ministrations but snatches the gun and slips it into his pocket. Thankfully, a split lip seems to be the extent of his injuries. Not that knowing as much stops my fingers from running over his forearm without my brain telling them to, searching for any hint of damage there.
When I reach his shoulder, he gently bats my hand away, swiping at the remnants of blood with his bare hand. “It’s broad fucking daylight, and those assholes came here,” he hisses, sounding more incredulous than infuriated. “Even you were smart enough to grab a weapon, though I don’t know how you’d shoot it with the safety on. Shit. You know it as well as I do—this is about more than a fucking fire, bunny.”
“Tell me, then,” I demand. The back of my neck prickles with an awareness of just how dangerous a request this is.
Some monsters and their secrets are best left in the dark.
Regardless, watching his dark eyes scan the carnage of glass scattered at his feet triggers the same instinctive pull that I felt the night when I stole his lighter. In a childish sense, I’d believed I’d been protecting it from him. What had my rationale been? Some monsters deserve protecting…
“I want to know,” I insist. The hitch in my voice contradicts that confidence. To steel myself, I tiptoe back into the hall in search of the one task I can do as I await his response. I find the broom where I’d left it. Grasping it in both hands, I return to the front and get to work sorting out the pieces of glass too small to pick up.
It’s monotonous work—nearly distracting enough to shield me from his presence. He’s watching me, his gaze like a laser, piercing through flesh and bone.
“What do you want to know?” he asks, though I get the sense that he’s mocking me.
I look back to find his gaze far more serious than I expect, though.
Sighing, I lift my shoulders. “Everything.”
He leans against the counter, letting his lip bleed freely. Confidence enhances him, until he’s a giant, invincible amongst a sea of destruction.
“My uncle calls his outfit ‘red dragon’ though he’s not stupid enough to broadcast it. Most of the people around here know he’s dirty. They just don’t know how.” His gruff inflection conceals a dare.
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