Burn for Me (Hidden Legacy #1)(41)

“Do not walk away from me.” His voice vibrated with power. “You’re in over your head. Adam Pierce, House Pierce, and MII are out of your league. I’m offering to become your ally. Don’t make me into an enemy, or you will regret it.”

“And this is exactly why it’s a no.” I rose. “And the next time you choose to project into my dreams, do keep your clothes on.”

He smiled. It was a very male, self-aware smile, not just sexual but carnal. The predatory look in his eyes turned ravaging. I felt the need to grab a napkin and hold it in front of me like a shield.

“I can project, but I would have to be next to you to do it.”

Oh crap.

His voice turned smooth and sensual. A man had no right to sound like that. “Tell me, what wasn’t I wearing in your dreams?”

I rose, turned my back to him, and walked out.

The sound of his laughter caressed my back, almost like a sexual touch.

Keep walking, keep walking, keep walking. That was dumb. I just had to get that last word in. Would it have killed me to keep my mouth shut?

My phone beeped. I answered it.

“Drawbridge Security,” a brisk female voice said into the phone. “We’re showing a fire alarm at your residence.”

Grandma set the fire alarm off again. She’d test fuel or use some tool, and the alarm service called in a panic every couple of months. I had left them standing instructions to let the phone ring for at least a minute before calling the fire department. Sometimes Grandma took the time to put the fire out before answering.

“Did you let the phone ring?” I was almost to the door.

“We did. We’re registering two separate alerts, the workshop and the front door.”

Front door. The hair on the back of my neck rose. “Call the fire department now!”

I sprinted out the door and across the parking lot.

The van was already idling. I jerked the driver’s door open and jumped inside. “Our house is on fire!”

My mother snapped the rifle case shut, dropped into the passenger seat, and buckled. I stepped on the gas, and the van shot out of the parking lot. Mom dialed the house.

“Anything?” I took the corner too fast. The van careened and fell back in place, the springs screeching.

She put it on speaker. Ring . . . Ring . . . Ring . . .

“Is it the workshop?”

“The front door.”

We turned onto a side street. A slow-moving Prius blocked the lane. The line of cars in the opposite direction made it impossible to pass. Screw this.

I turned the wheel to the right. The van jumped the curb with a thud. I tore down the sidewalk.

Ring . . . Ring . . .

The Prius flew by. I dropped the van back into the lane.

Ring . . .

I made a sharp left. The warehouse loomed in front of us. It looked intact.

I screeched to a halt before the front door.

My mother swore. A huge chain blocked the door. Someone had cut holes in the walls and the door, strung an industrial-size chain through it, and locked it with a padlock. What the hell?

I stepped on the gas and drove around the warehouse to the workshop side. An identical chain blocked the back door. Damn it. I mashed the garage door opener attached to the visor. The massive door didn’t move. Disabled.

We had no tools that would cut the chain. Everything was inside the warehouse.

“Smoke,” Mother said.

A puff of black smoke escaped from the vent near the roof.

Grandma was inside. She could be burning to death.

“Ram it?”

“Go.” My mother braced herself.

I reversed, speeding backward down the street. The garage door would be the weakest point. It was an industrial garage door, reinforced from the inside, but it was still weaker than the walls. I’d have to hit it pretty hard. I aimed for the pale rectangle of the door and stepped on the gas. The van rocketed forward, picking up speed.

Mad Rogan stepped between the van and the garage door.

I slammed on the brakes, but there was not enough time to stop. I would hit him. I saw him with crystal clarity—his body, turned sideways to me, his striking face, his blue eyes—as the van skidded at him.

He raised his hand.

The van hit a cushion of air, as if we plowed headfirst into viscous honey. We slid to a soft stop a foot before his fingertips.

Mad Rogan faced the garage door. It clanged and crashed to the ground. Smoke billowed out, black and oily.

I jumped out of the van and ran inside. The smoke scoured the inside of my nose and scraped against my throat like fine-grade sandpaper. My eyes watered. The acrid stench choked me. I coughed and stumbled, trying to see through the dark curtain.

A human shape lay prone on the floor. Oh no.

I lunged forward and fell to my knees. Grandma Frida lay on her stomach. I flipped her, grabbed her by her arms, and pulled her across the floor. Mad Rogan congealed from the smoke, picked my grandmother off the floor, and headed for the exit.

The smoke ate at the inside of my mouth. It felt like someone filled my throat with crushed glass, and it was cutting into me. My head swam. I stumbled after Rogan, trying to find the exit. Suddenly the smoke ended and I shambled into fresh air. My lungs felt like they were on fire. I bent over and coughed. It hurt like hell.

Mad Rogan lowered my grandmother to the ground. Mom dropped by her. We couldn’t lose her. Not yet.