Call Me Fire

CHAPTER 15

FINDING A MISSING NEEDLE in a stack of hay was far easier than understanding what happened last night. Living in one of Klaire City's slums and having to grow up as an orphan made Tonya think that she had already seen it all.

Homeless people who looked more like they were soul-searching than house-searching. Newborn children who were being sent to the orphanage almost every other day. Government officials who would make better careers as hosts on 'Saturday Night Live' because they were better jokers than anyone else in the industry.

[Vote for the one with heart—]

Jolting awake, Tonya's eyes flipped open as the last word of that ad hit her. Heart pounding and throat dry, she turned the TV off as fast as she could, then threw the remote somewhere she wouldn't remember later on.

She was burning and sweaty, scorched even, when she sprung off the couch, went to her fridge, and grabbed a pitcher. She didn't even bother to take a drinking glass from the rack. She went straight for six huge gulps, hoping to drown that tiny flame that woke up with her inside her heaving chest.

'Damn it!' Her free hand found a way to grip the part of her shirt that lay just above her throbbing heart. It was burning, not in the sense that it toasted her clothes but in a way that reminded her of him.

Her cheeks grew redder as memories of last night reeled in her mind. That hurting part of her was the last place Fire touched before he wordlessly bolted out of her room and disappeared, even before she could run after him.

His touches were tender. His kisses were mild, and then... there was that hollow space on his chest that made her gawk, forget how beautiful he was, and turn him into a beast.

'A creature with no heart...' She squeezed her legs together when her core responded with a distinct sting. A proof that Fire wasn't just a dream and that the blood-stained blanket spinning inside the washer wasn't just the result of a boring day off.

'What are you, Spitfire?' Putting the pitcher down on the counter, Tonya sucked in a breath, hoping for the air to calm the heat growing on her chest. Running a palm over her sweaty face, she then walked to the laundry area just in time as the washer's alarm beeped.

If someone could multiply the word 'confusion' by ten and then square the result with the word 'scared,' Tonya guessed that it would perfectly describe what she felt in the last few minutes Fire was with her. She couldn't even tell what held her in place when his burning wound slowly became visible to her, as if it had been unveiled.

It was so out of the blue. It was so untimely given that she was naked before him, and he was still between her shaking legs when it appeared.

His wound was big enough to insert a human fist in it. It had a glowing flame that was going around the opening tirelessly, like a guard who was making sure that no one would be digging a murderous hand into him again.

The weird part was that she never got to see that wound when they started. What welcomed her view when he undressed was a man sculpted from pure perfection, bronze skin stretched over faultless muscles, a build that every woman would swoon, and a handsome face that would take a painter a hundred years to justify.

He was beautiful. Until something almost holy took place somewhere in between their faltering breaths and his powerful thrusts. She felt the heat, as hot as the man making love to her, get into her chest and engulf her heart.

It was unimaginably pleasant back then. The warmth inside her was like a solemn hand cradling the most sensitive part of her with the utmost care.

The moment was so quiet, so soft, yet burning as their bodies became one. The flame inside her ribs felt better and better every time he breathed her name. Thus, she shut her eyes to enjoy it. 'I hoped I didn't—'