REDEEMING THE ROSE: GILDED KNIGHTS SERIES BOOK 1 Page 35

  I grab James under the arms and wait.

  Sloane cuts. Sparks fly. And the sickening shrill of metal on metal makes my ears ache.

  “One inch to go.” He says it for himself. To psyche himself up and remain in danger. “Three quarters. Prepare to jump.”

  The sound outside of this vehicle is roaring and mean, but inside, I only hear Sloane, his words, his saw. And I hear me, my pulse in my ears, my breathing, labored because of the smoke I’ve been swallowing since we got here. My throat aches, and my muscles burn. My fear of fire sends my nerves to the brink of insanity, but I push to my feet, hold James close, and wait.

  The ribbon of fire snakes closer, closer. Six feet away, and roiling like an angry cobra.

  Five feet away.

  “Half an inch to go,” Sloane chants. “Start pulling.”

  “Drop and run when it’s time,” I tell him. “Drop and fuckin’ sprint.”

  “Mitch!” Nixon roars at me. “Stop screwing around!”

  “Get ready,” Sloane murmurs. “Get ready. Get ready.”

  My pants are soaked in gas, and flames race toward us from three feet away, which means we have about three seconds.

  Two seconds.

  One.

  “Go!” The second the shrilling of the saw breaks through the steel, Sloane drops his tool and bounds to his feet. He grabs James’s thighs, tears something James will need to have fixed in surgery, but he grabs on, and together, we bolt.

  The gas soaked into my pants makes my skin sizzle. The chemicals react against my flesh, and when we’re no more than ten feet from the car, the gas tank blows. My pants smoke and burn, and the pulse of the explosion sends us sprawling.

  Every crew member on scene takes cover. The water stops for a moment, and the car lifts off the ground and hovers in the air for an eternity. Gravel tears my shirt, and my shoulder, when I slam to the road, and for just a second, my brain rattles when my head hits the ground and rolls.

  But then the car touches down again, fire crews move in to put it out, and my training helps me through what my brain is too dizzy to remember.

  “Defib!” I shout through a scratchy throat.

  Nixon leaves his crew and skids down beside me and James. He pats Sloane on the shoulder—comfort and confirmation that his crew member is safe—then he looks to me and scowls at the blood spilling over my temple. “You’re bleeding, Mitch.”

  “Paddles!”

  “Here.” Fester slides down beside me and passes a set over. He grabs the gel and mashes the button to get the machine started. “Charging.”

  “Spread his shirt.” I peel the backing tape off one paddle and wait for Nixon to do as he’s told. “Get it out of the way. He’s been down for…” I look to Fester. “I don’t even know. Four minutes, maybe.”

  “Long time.” Nixon pushes James’ shirt aside and clears my canvas with a swipe of his hand. “Four minutes is dead, Mitch.”

  “Nah. He’s just hanging with his baby for a second.” I look to Fester and wish it was Luc. Luc’s my partner, my friend, my confidant. But he’s not here, so I look back to James and lay the second pad onto his chest. “Clear.”

  Everyone backs away. Hands off the patient. No limbs touching his. And then I zap him.

  The moment James’ body falls still, Nixon dives forward and presses his fingers to the man’s throat.

  “Nothing.” His eyes come to mine. “No pulse.”

  Nodding, I hit the dials on the defibrillator and prepare for a second shock.

  Then my vision turns dark at the edges, and my lips shake. Perhaps I’m feeling a little shocky myself. Maybe I almost died today, and maybe I continue to work on saving the one guy who would have me dead if he could.

  “I can’t let him go,” I declare. “I can’t. Everyone, clear.”

  I look around, spy all the raised hands, and then I zap him again. His body lifts, and his heart fights to restart.

  Nixon searches for a pulse as I sit back on my haunches. Then he exhales. “He’s back. You got him.”

  “Load him up!” I tear the pads from James’ chest and wave more EMTs forward.

  They bring a stretcher—and muscles, thankfully, because mine are done for today.

  “Get him into the rig,” I instruct whoever the fuck is listening.

  I let my gaze wander, I search the crowded street, and lock onto Nadia’s eyes as she stands behind the dude whose name I may never know. He shields her with his body; he’s in protective mode, despite the fact I have no clue who he is. But he’s helping and not hurting, so I smile for Nadia to let her know everything is okay.

  Then I turn to Nix and whisper, “Get me horizontal. Now.”

  “Oh shit.” He dives forward before smoke inhalation, blood loss, and shock make me eat the road.

  That would be embarrassing.

  26

  Epilogue

  Six Months Later

  Marjorie Evans was dead before Nixon and I reached that fiery wreck. The way she slumped forward upon impact, the way her spine hit the dash and crumbled in on itself, was enough that the medical examiner said she was gone in milliseconds, and didn’t feel a single beat of pain.

  Small mercies, I suppose.

  They rushed James Evans into surgery, where he was met with the best heart doctor this town knows—the same man our waitress at Franky’s Diner would loudly recommend to anyone in need.

  He saves lives, even when those lives seem too far gone to help.

  James was in surgery for a long time… long enough that I had time to sleep, and then wake to find Nadia sitting in the chair beside my hospital bed.

  She had tears in her eyes, and stress written into her every pore, but she wasn’t alone; Abby was there, Nix, Corey, Beck. And Troy was on the phone, demanding minute-by-minute updates, and threatening to end a life if they withheld important information.

  I was fine. My body was exhausted, but now, all these months later, I’m none the worse for wear.

  Well… mostly.

  A few days after the fiery wreck and James’ surgery, when he was well enough to talk and on the road to recovery—with a heavy helping of bereavement layered on top—he asked that I meet with him, and for me to bring the police chief, along with Harrison Best, and the medical examiner.

  James had a full roster of folks willing to listen… and then he told us what he thought Marjorie was trying to tell him. That she killed Cady; an accident, yes, but long before a fire or an air conditioning unit struck us down.

  Soon after that meeting in a dark hospital room, Cady Evans’ remains were exhumed and re-examined, and then our ME was fired and replaced, because he’d been too lazy, or too stupid, to notice sweet Cady’s broken vertebrae.

  That baby was dead before she’d left that apartment building. And even the fire, and everything that happened after, couldn’t hide the obvious disconnect between bones. Marjorie Evans had panicked about the fire in her kitchen, and shuffled her daughter out the door and down too many flights of stairs too quickly. And then they stumbled.

  After that moment, Marjorie had only sunk into her depression and despair, trying to make everything better, trying to assuage her guilt by bringing beautiful flowers to her baby girl, and telling her husband a small lie in a twisted attempt to comfort them both.

  Cady’s death was an accident. But it was at Marjorie’s hand.

  Then she met a beautiful florist, and her grief took her in strange directions.

  Now, Cady lays at rest, her mother beside her, and her father seeking help to deal with his double dose of grief. And when we pass each other in the street… well, at least he doesn’t hit me anymore.

  Everything was supposed to smooth out for us after that. The world was supposed to come back to normal and be kind. But of course, that’s not how everything goes. Abby’s friend, the young, sweet Marcie, passed away in her hospital room midway through a movie she was watching with my sister. From fried chicken, gravy and biscuits, and soda to ease the ache
that chemotherapy does to a girl’s throat… to death. Sudden and terrifying and right under Abby’s nose.

  Soon after that, we all got the news no one ever wanted to hear again: Abby’s cancer was back. Of course, in retrospect I realized that would explain her exhaustion, her sadness, her lack of appetite and increase in crankiness.

  But Abby’s news slammed us all. Troy and Spencer rushed home—both arriving at the same time, both realizing the world is a small place—and then Abby fucked me right over by marrying that monstrosity right in her hospital room.

  I mean, at least I got to attend, right? Maybe I was losing my mind, and perhaps I choked back vomit a time or two. But my sister got married, her new husband told us all he was taking charge from that point on, and then we were… dismissed. Not banished. But told to stand the fuck down and let him take care of her from then on.

  Which, I guess he did. Because now I sit halfway across a ballroom in a monkey suit and a tie that chokes the life out of me, but Abby glides on the dancefloor, smiling and laughing in her man’s arms.

  And she’s not sick anymore. In fact, she’s radiant and strong. She even has tiny biceps that prove she lifts a couple pounds of weight a day.

  Turns out, Spencer isn’t here to steal or take advantage. He’s here to help my sister thrive, to bloom, to fucking soar. And now, I guess I have a new friend.

  Picking up my beer and bringing it to my lips, I take a swig and grin when the bride and groom sway in the far corner. Jay Bishop is Abby’s pal now, and today, he married his ballerina wife, so we were all invited to this shindig.

  It’s all great, of course. I don’t have a problem being pals with thug commandos if my sister is pals with them. The only smudge on my life now is that, despite the fact Nadia and I have remained together all this time later, even going so far as to almost move in together—there are toothbrushes in both homes, and underwear drawers are being shared—we still haven’t publicly announced our relationship.

  I mean, Corey knows, and I’m pretty certain Nixon does too. Roy knows, and so do a handful of other people… But Abby got sick so soon after everything else happened that there was this silent agreement that we would allow her to focus on herself. To heal. To get better and not worry about what the rest of us were doing.

  That meant Nadia basically ran the shop while Abby was dealing with her cancer treatment, Roy was helping far more than high school credits required, and Arlo earned herself a lifetime supply of good karma, and easily qualified for a payout from her mother’s estate—a payout she has declined time and time again.

  I guess, with everything that was happening, I’d forgotten that Spence knew about Nadia and me. And I forgot he threatened to out us a few weeks ago when I told him to eat shit and die.

  What can I say? He said something about trying to impregnate my sister, and I fell into old habits.

  So today, in front of more than a hundred guests, Spencer made good on his threat to snitch, and Abby found out about us in a very public way… and didn’t freak out.

  “Bitchy Mitchy?” Nixon grabs the chair beside mine, spins it so he faces the dancefloor like I do, then he plops down and sips his beer—much the same way I do. Brothers to the end. Practically twins, though not necessarily in looks. “You look like you’re pouting.”

  “Not pouting.” I study Nadia on the dancefloor. Her stunning, silver dress. Her infectious smile. And another man’s arms holding her close. “Planning an intervention, though.”

  Chuckling, he lifts his left ankle to rest on his right knee. “Are you big mad that your girl is in love with Troy?”

  “No.” I bring my beer back to my lips to hide my smile. “She knows who to come home to.”

  “But you know he tries to win her over? You know he does it to piss you off.”

  “Yup.” My lips curl into a grin. “He’s an asshole.”

  “It’s good to have him home, though.”

  “So fucking good.” Setting my beer on the table when the song changes to something slower, something sweet, I push to my feet and straighten my jacket. “That’s my cue to cut in.”

  “Go do you, bro.” He settles back with his beer and lets his gaze wander to a woman who passes through near the far wall.

  She’s part of the planning around here, part of the admin staff who keep the event running on track. But Nix’s eyes swoop to her tight skirt and high heels, and he’s a goner.

  Shaking my head, I turn back to the dancefloor and clear my throat. I still feel nervous. She still gives me butterflies in my stomach. And better yet, everyone knows, so I no longer have to pretend that we’re merely acquaintances in a room.

  Stepping up to the laughing couple, I cough to announce my arrival, and though Nadia’s sparkling eyes flick to mine, widening and melting in one, Troy only spins them and continues to dance.

  “Fuck off, Mitchy. I’m getting to know my new sister.”

  “You’re not holding her like a fuckin’ sister.” I grab his shoulder and spin him away. “Touch her ass again, and I’ll rearrange your face.”

  Troy is a seven-foot-tall, badass motherfucker, but he grins now like he’s six and we’re in our parents’ living room. “Hit me, and I’ll tell Mom.”

  “Go tell Mom. See if I care.” I grab Nadia’s hand and pull her in until her arms wrap around my neck and her cheek rests on my shoulder. “Hey there, Mooch.”

  “Hey, handsome. I missed you while you were all the way over there.”

  I let my hands roam her succulent hips. Her tiny waist. Her strong shoulders and pointed elbows. “Figured I’d let Troy have his minute, a taste of what he’ll never actually have.”

  She nuzzles in close. “Tease.”

  “Marry me.”

  Nadia freezes. My heart freezes. Everyone within a two-fucking-mile radius freezes as she pulls back. Her bright eyes no longer melt. Her arms no longer caress.

  “What?”

  “Marry me?” I ask this time, instead of tell. “Please?”

  Since we’re no longer dancing, and I no longer get to hold her, I reach into my pocket and take out the thin gold band with a single diamond perched on top.

  It took me weeks to settle on this design. Because what if she wants lots of little diamonds? What if she wants a heart, or a teardrop, or a fucking pearl? There was so much pressure to get it right, and hardly anyone to ask for advice.

  Taking a breath, then lowering to one knee, I glance up and find the whole wedding paused and watching me make a dick of myself. “Um… like… I love you, Mooch. I’ve loved you since you walked in and talked shit like you weren’t afraid of getting your ass kicked out of town.”

  “I wasn’t afraid.” Snickering, she shakily wipes a finger beneath her eye. “You’re all hot air. I could read you from the moment I met you.”

  “Marry me, and we can continue to annoy each other. And then make babies. And then we can teach our babies to be annoying too.”

  “Wow.” Her cheeks burn red. “That’s what you’ve got to offer me?”

  “I’ll tolerate your cat. And we won’t kick Arlo out yet. I’ll call you every single time I’m called out in the middle of the night, and let you know I’m okay.”

  “Really? And consistent texts?”

  “And consistent texts. And a stone countertop the same as Nixon’s. And a backsplash. A kitchen to raise our family in. And we’ll make it our life’s work to figure out the code to the safe in your room. I’ll help you get it open.”

  “You got a safe you want opened?” The bride, whose wedding we’re hijacking—not that it matters, since Jay’s most hated enemy was also the officiant of the day—comes closer with a tiny little potbelly filled with a baby, and her hand wrapped around Jay’s. “I could probably help you out with that.”

  I look back to Nadia and take her left hand. “Asshole cat, stone countertops, whatever is inside the mystery safe, and a lifetime of mediocre happiness, all in exchange for you not freaking out about commitment and being too scared to
do what is right.”

  “That’s a pretty good deal,” she whispers and chokes on her tears. “Pretty sweet deal with a pretty handsome man.”

  “So…” My heart races for her. My adrenaline pulses. “That’s a yes?”

  “Yeah.” A heavy tear spills over her lashes and onto her cheek. She steps forward and wraps her arms around my neck. “That’s a hell yes,” she whispers in my ear. “I’ve been waiting for this question. I was ready before you.”

  Continue the Gilded Knights Series with Nix’s story, titled Chasing Fire.

  And if you’re new to my world, go back to Finding Home and find out why Abby always wants to know when Bobby Kincaid is in her shop.

  Acknowledgments

  It’s a new series. A new family. New love. New drama.

  And you’re here for it. Thank you!

  To my editor, Jen. I adore you. Don’t overthink it. Just keep doing that magical thing you do.

  To my cover designer, Amy. We’ve been together a long time now. I appreciate you as much as ever. Keep bringing me these covers. I can’t get enough.

  To my best friends, betas, and sisters: I love you so much. Thank you for always being here for me.

  To my proofreader, Lindsi. Name that baby Jay, or else! Also, I love your face.

  To my babies: everything I do is for you. Forever.

  And to my crew: y’all are crazy. Keep it up.

  Also by EMILIA FINN

  (in reading order)

  The Rollin On Series

  Finding Home

  Finding Victory

  Finding Forever

  Finding Peace

  Finding Redemption

  Finding Hope

  The Survivor Series

  Because of You

  Surviving You

  Without You

  Rewriting You

  Always You

  Take A Chance On Me