Page 18 of When the Smoke Clears

My head snaps back, striking cold metal. Tires screech. An engine roars. The acrid bite of burnt rubber fills the air.

Adrenaline blurs everything. My limbs tremble. Pebbles dig into my palms as I try to push myself up.

Then I feel it—one strong hand cradling the back of my head, another firm between my shoulder blades.

Someone shoved me clear. Someone saved me.

I blink through the haze into forest-green eyes.

I’m sprawled on top of Luke Wild, in the middle of Main Street.

CHAPTER 5

LUKE

I should move, or at the very least ask if she’s alright, but the adrenaline roaring through my veins renders me paralyzed. So I lie there, flat on my back on Main Street, Isla sprawled across my chest, her cheek pressed right against the badge over my heart—like she has a claim on both.

Her hair is in my hands. I don’t even remember grabbing her. It’s just there, tangled around my fingers like my body remembered the habit of reaching for her before my brain did. Memory’s cruel joke.

I’d been a step from the curb when Isla stepped out of the home décor shop across the street, clutching a brown paper bag. Her head was down, shoulders dipped—an old posture I recognize instantly.

Isla, lost in thought, is a particular thing. Her body folds inward like she’s bracing for something. Even from halfway down the block, something tugged at me.

Old instinct. Old habit. Old everything.

The crosswalk was clear with no cars in sight, but a prickling at the back of my neck urged me forward.

Then the bag handle tore. The small box in her hands hit the pavement, and she crouched to grab it at the exact moment a car whipped around the corner and barreled straight toward her.

It happened too fast for words, too slow for breath.

I shouted her name, but she stayed frozen, rooted in place, and the car kept coming.

The next moments blurred into instinct: sprinting, grabbing her around the waist, twisting midair to take the hit myself. My back hit the asphalt; she landed on me.

Now she’s staring at me, breath shallow, eyes wide.

Her lashes flick fast, rapid, and erratic, like she’s blinking in Morse code. Her cheeks flush pink. Those blue eyes flick down to my mouth, just for a fraction of a second. An old, dangerous reflex.

“What’s new, Luke?”

The words are light, but her voice is thready. It’s not humor. It’s armor. She’s always reached for a joke when she’s one breath away from falling apart.

The adrenaline that nearly ripped my heart out curdles into something sharper. Fear wearing anger like a mask.

I push up with a grunt and grab her shoulders—not gently—and set her down on the curb. She hits with a thud.

My hand stabs through my hair, frustration buzzing through every nerve, and I have to resist the urge to pinch the bridge of my nose. She’s always had a talent for short-circuiting my patience.

“Jesus, Isla. How many times do I have to save your life?”

Her eyes flare. “Are you kidding me?”

“You could’ve been hit by that car!”

“Do you think I meant for that to happen? I dropped my bag, Luke. The car came out of nowhere!”

I drag a breath into my lungs. “Are you alright?”