Grave Danger. Katy Lee

up the stairs.

      “I couldn’t just leave you in there,” she shot at his back.

      “It’s not your job to protect me.” He reached the last two steps and made a grab for the doorknob.

      It didn’t budge.

      “So sorry,” she said, oblivious of the danger they were back in again. “Whoever was supposed to protect you wasn’t available.”

      Wesley went for his gun at his belt but came up empty. Shock made way to remembrance. He’d dropped it in his mad dash for the locker.

      Panic set in. They were locked inside a stairwell with a fire creeping up behind them, and he had no way of getting Lydia to safety. His only recourse was to kick the door as he had the locker. He lifted a leg in front of him and jammed it right below the doorknob. His body vibrated, but not the door. “There is no one to protect me—” he kicked “—or miss me—” his shoulder jammed “—or otherwise.” His breaths gained momentum while he leaned against the door for a quick break. This thing must be made of oak, he thought. “I can’t say the same for you.”

      “What are you doing?” she cried in a moment of confusion. “Are we locked in?”

      “You’re brilliant, Doc.” He swiped the sweat from his forehead. He noticed a wisp of smoke floated passed at eye level. He looked down past Lydia to see bright orange tongues lap up at them as if they searched them out.

      In the next instant, Lydia came barreling up beside him, heaving her body into the door. He joined her, and the two of them put every ounce of effort they had into breaking it down. Twice. Twice more. Another heave. Another kick. Exhaustion showed on Lydia’s face, but she didn’t relent. At first her heaves were accompanied by a good black belt’s kiai. Then her voice faded along with her gusto until she stopped her pushing completely.

      Wesley pushed on, heaving his shoulder into the door three more times before she placed a hand on his forearm. He heaved again while his gaze locked on her slender-boned hand.

      “It’s over, Wesley.”

      It’s over? He hated those words, and all their various levels of meaning. An image of the last girl who’d said them flashed in his mind.

      Wesley pushed it out and focused on Lydia’s liquid-brown eyes. She wasn’t that girl. She wasn’t a liar like Jenny. The dancing flames reflecting in her glasses proved it. The fire was here to claim them. Her words rang true.

      It was over.

      The two of them leaned as far away from the rising scorches as they could. Their bodies plastered against the door, their faces inches apart.

      “I’m sorry.” His voice was coarse and scratched from the smoke.

      “Nothing to forgive.” Her lips trembled while she squeezed his arm in restrained fear.

      He couldn’t accept what she was offering him. “I was supposed to protect you. You’re on my island, and I failed you.”

      She shook her head. A long tendril of silky hair escaped her tight bun and fell to the side of her stoic face. She faced death with no hysteria. Her fear checked. Nothing out of control but her hair.

      Her hair.

      Wes grabbed at the sides of her head. He threaded frantically into the sides and back of her silky hair.

      “What are you doing?” she demanded.

      “Looking for a pin. Do you have any in here?” He continued to grapple at this last attempt to save her.

      “A pin? A pin! Yes, I have a pin in here somewhere. Her hands reached up, brushing against his. Their fingers tangled together before she found what they were searching for. A pin keeping her hair pulled back.

      She brought the stickpin out and forced it in his hand. “Can you pick the lock?”

      “Yes.” He got down to his knees, trying to make a connection with the pin and lock mechanisms as fast as possible, but also carefully so as to make that connection on the first try.

      “Can you pick it, like, now?” The panic in her voice told him the fire was on her. He hated to hear her whimper and used that to push him.

      “Almost...there!” Wes turned the knob and pushed the door wide. He reached around her waist and threw her out the door ahead of him. Together they fell forward in a scrambling heap away from the door.

      He lifted his head to look over Lydia’s. She coughed in fits, but his eyes locked only on a pair of men’s brown boots belonging to someone who stood over them.

      Had the yacht owner come home? Wesley pushed Lydia to his left and pooled the last of his resources. After fighting a battle of flames, he still had one more battle to fight.