INTO THE FIRE

VALERIE

The air between us felt unbearably heavy, thick enough to choke on. I stood frozen, rooted in place, while Alexander’s eyes bored into me. His stare was relentless, the kind that pierced through the skin and clawed at the secrets you wished no one would ever uncover. He looked like a man who could strip away every layer of me without ever laying a hand on my body.

My pulse thundered in my throat, too loud, too fast, each beat betraying me. Every instinct screamed at me to snatch the journal back before his fingers pried it open, before the ink on its pages betrayed what I had fought so long to hide. Yet my body betrayed me too, keeping me fixed to the floor, my grip crushing the handle of my bag until the leather cut into my palm.

“Private,” I managed at last, my voice coming out sharper than I had intended.

He tilted the journal just beyond my reach, his height turning the moment into something deliberately maddening. His mouth curled faintly at one corner, but his eyes remained hard, suspicious, unyielding. “Private,” he echoed, as if rolling the word on his tongue. “So private you’d risk snatching it back like a thief in broad daylight?”

I clenched my jaw. “Yes. Because it’s mine. So if you don’t mind—”

He did not hand it over immediately. He held it higher still, his gaze flicking from the worn journal to my face. I could feel my nails biting crescents into my palm. Every second he clutched that book wound the coil in my chest tighter and tighter until I could hardly breathe.

Finally, mercifully, he lowered it and pressed it into my hand. His fingers brushed against mine—whether deliberate or not I couldn’t tell—but the touch lingered like heat, searing far longer than it should have.

I snapped the journal back into my bag, the flap closing with a sound that seemed far too loud in the brittle silence.

“There’s nothing interesting in there,” I said quickly. The words tumbled out in a rush, too defensive, too rehearsed.

Alexander leaned back, watching me with unnerving composure. He did not believe me, I could see it in the way his eyes lingered. Those eyes belonged to a man who had been lied to too often to ever take an answer at face value.

“Interesting,” he murmured. “Very interesting.”

I forced my chin up, refusing to bend under his scrutiny. If he saw even a hairline crack in my resolve, everything I had built would shatter. “It’s just names. People I’ve come across. Cases. Notes. Nothing else.”

“Names,” he repeated softly, tasting the word as though it carried more weight than I wanted him to imagine.

The tension pressed against me, gnawing, stretching itself until it frayed at the edges. Then his tone shifted, deceptively light. “So tell me, Miss Quinn—are you in or out?”

The words sliced through the air with the precision of a blade.

My breath caught in my chest. This was it—the moment I had circled for so long, the moment I had played with through careful resistance, always pushing back but never far enough to sever the connection. And now here it was, placed directly in front of me.

I didn’t answer immediately. My mind flooded with excuses, strategies, half-formed stories I could lean on, but all of it tangled uselessly beneath the heat of his gaze. He was watching too closely, too intently, with a patience that felt like it could curdle into something far darker.

His head tilted slightly, one brow lifting. “Still waiting for your answer.”

My lips parted, but nothing emerged. The silence dragged itself long, too long, until my pulse felt like a drumbeat pounding in my ears.

“I’ll think about it,” I forced out at last, my voice level though tension threaded every syllable.

The smirk returned. Slow. Measured. Dangerous. “Think about it,” he repeated. “Fine. I’ll be waiting.”

His tone was calm, but a weight sat beneath it. A warning. A man like Alexander Stone didn’t wait for long.

I swallowed, nodding once. “Tomorrow. I’ll meet you. The café on Seventh.”

That caught his attention. His gaze sharpened, and that dangerous smirk tugged at his mouth again. “Hidden little place, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” My voice had steadied now, deliberate, chosen. “Tomorrow.”

He didn’t press further. He only leaned back, eyes holding me like a wolf satisfied after the first taste of blood, content to wait for the next bite.

I turned sharply, forcing my steps to remain steady. My back burned under his gaze until I stepped out the door, until the night air struck me cold and clean against my skin.

The instant I was free, I exhaled the breath I had been holding. My hand pressed against my chest, feeling the frantic hammering beneath. That had been too close. If he had read one more line, if his eyes had lingered even a second longer on the truth inside that journal, everything I had worked for would have shattered in an instant. Years of planning, of building this fragile facade, destroyed before I ever had the chance to strike.

I paced the sidewalk, trying to gather myself. The city moved around me, oblivious—cars passing with quick blurs of light, muffled laughter spilling from a bar, the faint whir of motorcycle engines rising in the distance and making my stomach clench.

“I’ve played hard to get long enough,” I whispered to myself, the words bitter on my tongue. “It’s time to move.”

I could not linger on the edge forever. The longer I resisted, the more his suspicion would grow. I needed to step forward now, to draw him in, even if it meant stepping directly into the fire.

This wasn’t about temptation, though that shadow lingered, always threatening at the edges of my thoughts. It wasn’t even about desire. This was about Vera. Always Vera. Her pale face, her hand cold and limp in mine, the endless years of restless nights waiting for an answer that never came. Waiting to know when—if—she would ever wake up.

This wasn’t about me. It was about justice. About revenge. About balance.

The next day, I dressed with care—sharp, professional, precise, the perfect mix of approachable and untouchable. The café smelled of roasted coffee and warm pastries, but none of it touched me. All I noticed was him.

Alexander sat in the back, leaning into his chair, a man who looked too at home wherever he was. He didn’t need to command attention; his presence alone did all the work.

His eyes found me the second I walked in, and that smirk returned, as if he had always known I would come.

I forced my steps to stay steady, ignoring the way the air seemed to thicken with every stride. When I reached his table, I didn’t falter.

“Yes,” I said simply.

His brow arched. “Yes?”

“I’ll join you.”

Silence stretched between us for a beat. Then his smirk deepened, sharp and dangerous. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, his gaze fixed on me like a predator savoring prey that had walked willingly into the trap.

“Good,” he murmured, the word curling like smoke in the air between us.

I stood tall, refusing to flinch. “But on one condition.”