Smoke. The acrid smell filled Grace’s nostrils, the burn drying out her throat. She tried to lift her arm to rub the sting out of her eyes, but she couldn’t move. Both of her hands were heavy, locked tight, heat pricking her palms where they were tightly pressed together.

She tugged again. Forget the smoke. Her head was throbbing and she really wanted to inspect the damage.

“For once in your goddamn life, Grace Fitzgerald, do as you are fucking told and stay still.”

She would have laughed. Poor man, he sounded so incredibly disgruntled. But the pain from the back of her head was reaching around and burrowing beneath her eyes, her cheekbones, the corners of her mouth. Smiling hurt. Laughing would be excruciating. So Grace settled for nudging Mark with her knee, catching him on the hip where it was lodged against her.

“Grace?”

Grace cracked open her eyes when he said her name, fear skirting across her brain at the panic in his voice. “Hmmm?”

“Grace! Oh, God.” Mark was covering her, his chest curled over hers on the sofa, his forehead resting softly against her temple, his lips coasting lightly across her skin as he gently traced her jaw with one hand.

He was everywhere. He was shaking.

“Hey,” Grace managed to murmur, pulling her hands out from between the crush of their bodies and cradling his head between them. She opened her eyes wider and her fingers tightened, her hands pulling him closer.

Their gazes locked.

It wasn’t like falling. Her stomach didn’t plummet, her breath didn’t vanish. She didn’t feel a rush across her face or gravity give way beneath her.

No. Grace was captured, utterly and completely captivated, the current of emotions in Mark’s eyes sweeping up around her, warming her where she’d been cold, calming her where she’d been fearful. Speaking to her where she’d been silent.

Mark slipped his large palm behind her head and brought their mouths together, the press of his lips gentle yet unwavering. 

“I am so fucking mad at you,” he muttered when they broke apart.

“Ditto.” Grace managed a thin smile.

“No, no way.” Mark rocked his head against hers. “You weren’t supposed to come here. I didn’t want you coming here.”

“And I wasn’t going to let you do this by yourself.”

Grace and Mark stared at each other, their silent battle of wills doing nothing to curtail the emotion swelling around them.

“Mr. Donovan.”

Grace jerked in surprise at the curt voice coming from somewhere near her feet. Pushing Mark back as best she could, Grace looked around him to see a paramedic giving Mark a disapproving scowl.

“Mark?” Grace scooted back and tried to sit up, but Mark held her still, his good hand on her shoulder. “What’s the matter? Are you okay?” Pieces of memory finally breaking through the pounding in her head, Grace scanned Mark and gasped when she saw almost one entire sleeve of his shirt soaked through with blood and his hand anchored by the paramedic as the man tried to finish wrapping it with a thick bandage.

Mark gave a nonchalant shrug. “Nothing a few stitches couldn’t take care of.”

Grace’s head fell back against the sofa with a thud, but she barely registered the spike in pain. Her brain was too busy scrambling to remember what had happened.

“Marcus.” She tensed again but lost some of her fight when Mark gently brushed hair off her face.

“Gone.”

“Gone. You mean…?”

“No.” When Mark shook his head, Grace thought she caught a small pang of disappointment. “He’s with Craig. Security showed up just after your little stunt and hauled him away. He’s on his way to the police station right now.”

“Oh,” Grace sighed in relief.

“Hey,” came Tristan’s voice as he emerged from the kitchen. “Don’t forget to mention my heroics when you tell the story. Otherwise I’ll think twice about jumping in to save your life next time.”

“Tristan?” This time Grace did sit up, disregarding Mark’s grumble. “When did you get here? And why do you look like that?”

Grace pointed at the white bandage wrapped around Tristan’s arm, the dark sleeve of his shirt sliced clean up to his elbow, his pants clinging to his calves where they were soaked through.

“Are you…?” Grace swallowed as she tried to figure out how he could be standing if he’d lost that much blood. “Is that blood?” She lowered her finger to point at his legs.

“Huh? Oh, no.” Tristan shook his head, a crooked smile forming.

Mark looked up at his cousin, and Grace was surprised to see a smile spread across his face as well. Tristan started to laugh and Mark grinned wider.

Grace scowled. “Someone tell me what happened. Now.”

Mark was laughing now too, a large, rollicking sound that had him gasping for breath, his shoulders shaking. Conceding defeat, the paramedic dropped Mark’s hand, satisfied that he’d done what he could. Tristan thanked the solemn man as he approached the sofa, giving his cousin a few hearty slaps on the back.

“This isn’t funny,” Grace muttered.

“No,” Mark managed to get out. “It really isn’t.”

“Then why are you laughing?” She wanted to pout but found her own lips kicking up at the sight of the two men smiling goofily at each other, Mark swiping away some moisture from his eyes.

Slapping Mark once more on the back, Tristan turned to Grace. “My cousin objected to my use of his champagne.”

“Huh?” Grace didn’t even try to guess.

“There were at least a dozen other things you could have grabbed, Tristan,” Mark said through lingering chuckles.

“Nothing so close.” Tristan shrugged. “Besides, turns out it was very effective.”

“Really?” Mark rolled his eyes. “Personally, I would have gone for water first. Or, you know, a fire extinguisher.”

“I’m going to give you a break this once, Mark,” Tristan retorted, “and excuse your critical comments because you’re obviously distraught. And suffering from a loss of blood. But next time your girlfriend sets the house on fire and you’re getting sliced up by a psycho with a machete, maybe cut a guy some slack and don’t get all judgmental over his method for putting out the flames. Shit,” Tristan huffed as he dropped onto the facing sofa. “Give a man a break. I even sacrificed my favorite shirt for you.”

“All of your shirts look like that.” Mark’s grumble was softened by his lingering smile.

“You poured champagne on the fire?” Grace squeaked. “Who pours alcohol on a fire?” She rapidly scanned the room to see just how bad the damage was and was surprised when the dark char marks were limited to one disintegrated curtain and a relatively small patch of wall.

“Someone with an angsty childhood,” Mark responded as Tristan grinned mischievously at Grace.

“Calm down. Champagne isn’t flammable. Obviously.” Tristan gestured around them at the still-standing villa. “Not enough alcohol. It isn’t usually my first choice for putting out fires, but needs must.” He smiled, but Grace didn’t miss how serious his eyes became.

“I’m just glad I got here when I did,” Tristan continued. “I don’t want to think….” His voice faded off as he played with the end of the bandage wrapped around his forearm.

“Your arm?” Grace gestured at it.

“Just a flesh wound. That man, Marcus? The fire distracted him. As did your crash to the ground, Grace. By the time I got close enough to douse the flames he was just swinging wildly, blade only nicked me.”

Grace looked at the bandage covering most of Tristan’s arm and cocked her eyebrow. “A nick?”

“Just go with it, Grace,” Mark grumbled, his face darkening. “Tristan hates when people fuss.”

“And you?” She turned towards him, capturing his bandaged hand in both of hers.

“Yup, hate it too.”

“Not the question I was asking.” Grace couldn’t stop herself from running her thumb across the surface of the bandage where it rose noticeably across the back of his hand.

“I’m fine,” he finally answered. “Sore.” Grace skimmed her thumb across it again, and Mark winced. “Okay, really fucking sore. But, honestly, my hand is the last thing on my mind right now.”

Grace’s mouth went completely dry under the intensity of his stare. Any lingering humor vanished as the air around them crackled with unspoken words.

Sensing the shift, Tristan got up from the sofa and squeezed Mark’s shoulder before giving Grace a small nod. “Really glad you two are alright.”

“Thanks, Tristan.” Grace shot him a heartfelt smile. “Thank you so much.”

Mark looked up briefly at his cousin, and the two men exchanged a look Grace couldn’t decipher. It was brief but intense, Mark’s lids dropping quickly as a spot of color rose on Tristan’s cheeks. Mark swallowed hard and Tristan cleared his throat, giving Grace one last smile before waving goodbye.

“Rest up, you two. If I see you take so much as one step out of this villa over the next couple of days I’ll lock you in here so tight even room service won’t be able to get in. You’ll have to survive off what’s left of the champagne and chocolate torte.”

Mark chuckled briefly before his head whipped around towards Tristan, “What do you mean, what’s left?”

“Did you say chocolate torte?” Grace leaned around Mark to try to catch Tristan’s attention, but he was already on his way out of the villa, the remnants of his laughter disappearing as the door closed behind him.