Kane was on his hands and knees, urgently hunting for a way out, but it was impossible to see anything inside the inferno the living room had become. There was a draft, air shifting around him as if it had found an exit and couldn’t leave fast enough.

So he followed it, forcing arms and legs that felt too tight.

If his fingers hadn’t brushed over human hair, hadn’t tangled in those locks, he would have moved right past Lars without ever knowing the man was there.

Which made him realize he had to drag him out.

Why else would he have stumbled on him?

Kane caught hold of a collar. It tore at first, the fabric weakened significantly how it had been scorched, but he renewed his grip, twisted, and dragged that heavy body out with him.

No one deserved to be consumed in a fire of Zachary’s making.

Not like this.

He’d make sure the tall man would have a decent burial. Christian like, under a tree or some shit.

Something whimpered nearby. For a moment, a horrible, gut twisting moment, he thought it was Eleodora.

He lost his grip on Lars, falling forward and yelling out in pain as his tender skin scraped on the hot floor boards.

Why did he feel torn in two? One half of him wanted to grab her and pull her out with Lars, knowing it was impossible but willing to try. The other laughed as it screamed for her to die in the fire along with Zachary. That the death of two capos was always, always, better than one.

But reason interrupted that frantic train of thought.

Not human. Canine. It was the dog whimpering, not Eleodora.

Kane reached out a hand. If he encountered the animal in that single stretch, he’d bring it with him, because he was meant to.

But if he touched nothing but air…

His fingers brushed jagged fur. Moist, weeping wounds. A collar.

He slid his fingers under that strip of leather and pulled.

A yelp of pain shot through the air, followed by more whimpering.

Yeah, you and everyone else, you mutt.

Kane gritted his teeth, tasting blood and ash in his mouth as he strained forward on his knees.

Heavy billows of smoke obscured the hallway. They barelled past him, drawn to the open front door by a draft that might have come from the back of the fireplace; if the blast had been significant enough—and fuck, it had definitely felt significant to him—then it might have blown out the back wall.

Which might have been what saved him.

Because, if they had built this beach house with concrete or brick walls instead of wood, it would have contained that blast much better.

He’d have been a pulp.

The dog but a smear on the carpet.

Blood and ash painted the walls a reddish black.

Ahead, something appeared from the smoke like a demon.

Finn — clothes blackened, hair singed, open wounds on his arms. A shape dangled over one broad shoulder.

What remained of Eleodora Rivera.

He caught barely a glimpse before urgent smoke piled between them, but it had been enough to know Finn was about to pitch forward.

Kane released Lars and the dog. He forced himself to his legs with a cry of pain, and surged forward.

He tried to grab Milo, but he got a handful of Eleodora instead. Warm. Slippery. She slithered off Milo and onto him. He pushed her off with a hissed oath, and made another grab for Milo.

This time, he latched on. But the man found his balance and tore free a second later, only to fall down in the sand outside.

Where Kane could see he was still on fire.

He spun around and battled back through the smoke, running headlong into a bed before his streaming eyes could focus. He dragged a quilted cover from the mattress and into the en-suite bathroom. Water chugged from the taps, but everything was taking too long, too fucking long.

He clawed out the scarcely wet blanket and stumbled down the hall, coughing so hard he saw spots every time he blinked.

The blanket hissed when it fell over Milo’s unmoving body. Pale steam rose, a testament to the sudden dousing of those incandescent flames.

Footsteps scraped on the wood behind him.

Kane twisted around. He’d expected Zachary to be standing there. Nothing but a burned husk, but still alive. Grinning at him with a skull’s perpetual smile.

Lars tottered to the side, stumbled, and crashed to his knees. The dog he’d been carrying in his arms like a child yelped and went still.

Kane wrestled the now warm blanket from Milo and threw it over Lars where he lay on the porch.

Then he looked up, and saw a pair of feet sticking out of the doorway.

Two, perfect feet. Granted, one had a smudge of char on the inner arch but…

Kane stepped over the dog. His leg gave way when he put his weight on it. He crashed down beside Lars, let out a last cough that tore holes through his lungs, and tried to turn his head away from the smoke billowing out through the beach house’s doorway.

Something licked his ankle.

He laughed, thinking it had been Lars, and then remembered about the dog.