His Ember, Her Fyre

Chapter 2: An Angel

Fyre's P.O.V.

Do I feel bad for pretending to be asleep? No. Absolutely f*****g not. If anything, I deserve an award for my performance. Hell, I even convinced myself for a second. This whole 'pretending to be out cold' routine has been my survival tactic for years. I’m no stranger to hospitals—shitty public ones, top-tier private ones, even a few that don’t technically exist on paper. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned? Never let anyone get close enough to see your weaknesses—or your strengths. Especially the strengths. Those get exploited the fastest.

When I was a kid, I used to lie still for hours. Not breathing too heavily. Not blinking unless I had to. The kind of stillness that made people think you were either asleep or dead. The latter usually worked better. I stopped being human between the fifth and the fifteenth time. What I’ve mastered—better than any f*****g shrink-approved coping mechanism or bullshit breathing technique—is making my body shut the hell up on command.

Pain? Please. Whether it’s knives in my chest or this freezing-ass slab of metal I’m laid out on like someone’s half-priced meat special, I remain still. I don’t flinch. Don’t whimper. Every reflex gets smothered before it even starts. That’s not discipline. That’s survival. That’s me keeping the last scraps of control I’ve got in a world that never asked what I was willing to lose. Power and control—those two? They’re mine. And I dare someone to try and take them. Again.

However, the second I hear her voice—something in my chest tightens, and my pulse starts to race like I’m a f*****g kid all over again. The control I've perfected throughout the years has left the building, and I don’t f*****g like it. It’s not just the heat in her tone, either. It's the way she carries herself, as though she’s daring someone to push her past her limit. There's also something else. Something deeper. Something dangerous. I need to regain control.

Women are trouble. They smile while they gut you. Moan while they set you up to die. They’re weapons of destruction, sharpened by years of getting away with it. However, she looks like she could get away with murder and that thought turns me the f**k on—it also makes my f*****g skin itch.

I focus on the conversation around me in hopes of keeping my c**k from making itself known. Thank f**k to whoever put this adult diaper on me—it’s so tight, I can barely feel my balls. At this rate, they’re saving me from embarrassment and an indecent exposure charge. "Emily said she'd let our patient here hit it." Disgusting. I’m sure what I’ve done is no secret. And I’d do it all over again—and again. But still, the thought of some random person discussing me like I’m a f*****g piece of meat makes my stomach churn, bringing up unwanted memories.

All of a sudden, I feel her latex-covered fingertips on me. Then, the smell of her invades my nose—embers and bourbon. What the f**k kind of doctor smells like that? And why the hell is it making my mouth water? She smells like danger—like burnt sugar and smoke, with just enough bite to make you wonder if it'll go down smooth, or gut you from the inside out. Not that sterile, scrubbed-clean scent I’m used to—just her. Raw. Real. Like sin wrapped in skin. She smells like regret I’d chase down on purpose. If temptation had a scent, it would be her. No f*****g doubt. I hate it. I hate that my body clocks her before my brain can say no. I hate that she smells like something I could ruin myself with and still crawl back for more. What the f**k is wrong with me? I don’t know if I want to drink her or set her on fire. Maybe both.

I feel it deep in my veins. Her f*****g scent is drawing me in, pulling all my attention towards her. My body reacts before my mind can catch up. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. s**t. I can’t let myself crack now. I can’t let her know I'm awake. Listening. So I look at her and open my mouth. “An Angel.” f**k me. Did I panic from being turned on while a doctor was sewing me shut? Yeah, I did. Still, there’s something about her. Those eyes—like the embers of a dying fire, glowing just before they go out. And I want to reignite them. I saw them when she stormed in—I had to peek at who was going to be touching me, in case I had to kill them later. Her eyes were full of determination and exhaustion. They’re intense like she carries the weight of the world on her shoulders, and yet there’s something else to them. The perfect mix of strength and mystery. A mystery I need to solve.

I hate the unknown. I can usually judge a person just by one look. Like the goofy-looking PA that's mocking me? I can tell right away he's hot for her—the fuckers' eyes lit up when she walked in. That SFA is a ball of fire. Reminds me of my brother. But her? She's f*****g with my head. For the first time in years, I forgot how to control a f*****g erection—like I'm some little kid again. I keep my focus on the chatter, on the people still snickering about my little comment. On anything to distract me. “She's red, folks! This is history. Mark the date. Ember Jackson felt something.” s**t. I wish I could see how red I made her. Oh, I'd give anything to see it and do it again. "Okay, fine. One drink." Oh, f**k no. Did she not just say she’s been awake for 37 hours? I should let it slide—hell, why do I even care? I don't even know this f*****g woman!

Yet something in my gut twists at the thought of her losing control. I don’t know why it bothers me. It shouldn’t. But it does. I listen as the footsteps fade, one by one, until it’s just her. I watch her back as she moves, and the soft sounds of her preparing something in front of me fill the room. I should keep pretending.

Yet, here I am debating on breaking my act. No. I need to remain in control. However, the need to know is stronger than me. The words slip from my mouth before I can stop them. "Why did you say yes?" I see the way her body stiffens, as though she’s just remembered I’m still here. Or perhaps she wasn’t expecting me to speak. Slowly, her gaze drifts toward me, those ember eyes locking onto mine. For the first time in years, I also forgot how to breathe. Hell fire. That’s the only way to describe it.

I watch her carefully, waiting for the moment she backs down like every other doctor I’ve ever dealt with. Everyone has a tell. A flinch. A blink. A hesitation that gives the game away.

I’ve built my entire life on noticing them. Reading the signs before their own body even knows what it's doing. But her? Nothing. She’s a blank f*****g wall with eyes that burn. And that pisses me off almost as much as it turns me on. When she speaks, her voice is steel. “You’re supposed to be asleep.” She moves towards the anesthesia and then toward me.

Not f*****g happening.

I grab her wrist before she can inject me. My grip is weak, but it’s enough to make her pause. Her skin is warm. So f*****g warm. And soft. For a second—just a second—she doesn’t pull away. She hesitates as though she feels it too. "That s**t doesn’t work on me, Angel. Also, tell Emily that I'm not interested." I tell her, my voice rougher than I expected.

Her breath catches, just for a second. But she recovers fast. Then, too quickly, she rips her hand back, like I burned her. Good. She should be afraid. Except—she doesn’t look afraid. She looks pissed. And that just adds to the mystery of her. Which in turn pisses me off even more.

"First of all, my name is Ember—I'm no angel," she snaps, grabbing my chart.

"Second, why isn’t this on your charts? This is pertinent information." She’s flipping through my file like she expects to find something, but she won’t.

I smirk. "You won’t find it in my charts. Never told anyone." I don’t know why I’m telling her. It just came out like f*****g word vomit. Her expression hardens, as though she’s debating whether or not I’m f*****g with her.

Then, just as she opens her mouth, the doors fly open.

"Are we ready to wheel the—" The SFA—Rebecca, I think her name was—stops mid-sentence when she sees me awake.

The grin that tugs at my lips is damn near automatic. "Oh, please, go on with that question. Just pretend I’m asleep—I did."

And then I wink. Did I just f*****g wink?

Ember stares at me, deadpan, like she’s contemplating whether she can legally smother me with a pillow. The rest of her team—besides Rebecca—stared at me, unsure if they should laugh or get the hell out.

The SFA opened her mouth with a sly grin. "I was going to ask if we were ready to wheel the big s**t-disturber into his room. Does this satisfy thy unholy douchebag?" Then she bows.

I like her. f**k, I think my brother Ethan would love her. "I like her," I say, glancing at Ember. "You two are the only ones I’ll allow escorting the unholy douchebag to his room."

Before anyone can respond— "Where the f**k is he, Cooper? Just because you're wearing a uniform doesn't mean I won't kick your entitled ass. The emergency room is right there." Ah. There he is. My brother, ladies and gentlemen. A walking, talking HR complaint. Just don't touch him without permission, unless you'd like to lose your limbs. I've seen men AND women learn the hard way.

"Can someone let my brother in before he ends up shackled next to me?"

The SFA moves first. Good. I grin. The door swings open, and there he is—Ethan f*****g Sinclair, 6’5" of pure arrogance and sharp Italian features. And he’s grinning at Rebecca like a f*****g chooch. What surprises me? She’s chooch-grinning right the f**k back. "You’re the hotter brother. I call dibs."

Then, to my horror, she grabs him by the wrist and practically drags him inside. I didn't think this through. Wait— he let her? That's...interesting.

Ember watches the scene unfold, deadpan, then turns back to me. "You're a menace," she mutters.

I smirk. "You have no idea." Because if she did—if she had any f*****g clue—she’d run. Just like everyone else. Just like I made them.