His blood burned at the mere recollection of the darkness he’d seen in the man’s mind. He kept his hands folded under his arms, forcing his face to stillness.
Rose sighed, staring down into her mug of tea. He’d put sugar and milk in it, the way she liked. Steam curled up between her cupped hands.
She looked unusually small and fragile, curled in his desk chair with her feet tucked up. He’d brought her back to the fire station, to his own office. He’d told her that it was mere pragmatism. The station was closer to the restaurant than Rose’s pub, and she’d needed treatment for shock straight away.
In truth, he’d wanted—needed—to bring her back to his own nest. Even if it was just an office and the tiny adjourning room where he slept, it was his territory. The one place where he could be certain she was safe.
She’d washed her hands and face in the station’s shower room, but she was still flushed and disheveled. Her beautiful red silk top was marred where soot from the burning vehicle had blown onto her.
The black marks were yet another guilty stain on his soul. He clenched his fist, still angry with himself for putting her in such danger. If he’d known how closely she would approach the blaze, he would never have started it.
Of course, he should have known.
She’d always run toward the fire.
“You must think I’m such an idiot,” Rose said.
It was so at odds with his actual internal monologue of self-castigation that he could only stare at her for a moment, nonplussed. “Of course not. Why would you say that?”
“I’m an empath. I knew there was something off about Mack. But I was so happy to have someone interested in me that I ignored all the red flags slapping me in the face.” She rubbed the bridge of her nose, pulling a face. “I have terrible taste in men.”
He couldn’t disagree with that.
“Oh.” Rose dropped her hand, looking mortified. “Oh, Ash, I didn’t—not you, of course. That is, not that I’m still—well, you know. No offense meant, anyway.”
“None taken.” He hesitated, but couldn’t resist asking. “Though I am very curious as to what you could possibly have seen in that…individual.”
Rose looked, if possible, even more embarrassed. “If I tell you that, you are going to think I’m an idiot.”
“I will never think that. Tell me, Rose. Please.”
Rose dropped her eyes to her coffee again. She tugged his blanket a little closer around her shoulders as if trying to hide within its gray folds.
“Tattoos,” she muttered, blushing.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I agreed to the date because I saw his tattoos in his profile picture.” She shrugged. “I don’t know why, but I always do like a man with tattooed forearms.”
The scar around his own right wrist burned, as though the binding was still there. Ash found he was rubbing at it, and made himself stop.
Fortunately, Rose hadn’t seen. She still had her head bowed, her hair shadowing her face.
“And, well, then I met him in person, and he had that hint of danger too, and…” Rose broke off, taking a sip of her tea. “I guess I have a type.”
“Dangerous men with tattoos,” he said softly.
“I didn’t say it was a good type.” She pushed her hair back, glancing up at him. “Just as well you were there. But why were you there?”
He looked at the papers on his desk. The city map on the wall. Anywhere but her face.
“Ash.” Her voice was soft, but brooked no evasion. She leaned forward a little, capturing his gaze. “Why?”
The truth leaped into his mouth. He swallowed it back again.
“I am your friend,” he said instead, which was at least a different truth.
“And the car just happened to burst into flames,” she said, her mouth twisting wryly. “Well, to save further property damage—not to mention your career—I’ll try to pick my date more wisely next time.”