Instead, I stay where I am. Hand on my weapon. Wall at my back. Safe distance maintained.
The comm unit on the table chirps. A quiet alert. Encrypted signal incoming.
I’m across the room in three steps, grateful for the interruption. For something to focus on besides the memory of her curves under my palms. The display shows Aurora Collective scramble codes, message decrypting in real-time.
From Viktor Parlance: “Kenan—confirmation received. Extraction team dispatched. ETA your position: Twenty-four hours. Maintain low profile. Syndicate activity increasing in region. Advise status and injuries. —VP”
Relief washes through me. Twenty-four hours and we’re out of this. Back to Seattle, proper medical attention, safety behind Aurora’s security protocols.
Back to the real world, where I’m a Craven elder, she’s an untouchable Arrowvane, and this thing between us can go back to being nothing.
Except it’s already something. Has been since the moment I pulled her from that flaming helicopter. Maybe before that.
I draft a response, fingers moving over the keypad on muscle memory: “Both alive. Minor injuries. Advise immediate protocol.”
Hit send. Wait.
A second message arrives within five minutes. This one from Caleb Craven: “Luke—Intel suggests Syndicate mobilizing toward the tomb site. Another possible attempt to access Sleeping King’s power. Do NOT engage. Extraction only. Craven out.”
My back stiffens. Muscles in my shoulders lock up.
Syndicate at the tomb. Where the ancient power has woken. Where something helped us escape through impossible channels. Where the Sleeping King’s essence still throbs through the mountain like a second heartbeat.
They’re going after the source.
I start pacing. Quiet steps that don’t mask my agitation.
If the Syndicate taps the Sleeping King’s power, the implications ripple out beyond one mission. Beyond one hybrid they’re hunting. They could control dragon bloodlines through connection to the ancient king’s essence. Identify every hybrid in existence through magical resonance. Execute purge protocols across the entire supernatural world.
And while they plan it, I’ll be sitting here, waiting for help to arrive.
I’m not sure I can stand a day in this lodge with Ember after what happened. After what almost happened. Twenty-four hours of wanting what I can’t have. What I shouldn’t take. What she’s already offered, and I was too much of a coward to accept.
Soft sound behind me. Fabric rustling. Movement.
I turn. Ember’s sitting up on the cot, blanket wrapped around her shoulders, hair mussed from sleep. The flannel shirt hangs off one shoulder, exposing the curve where her neck meets her collarbone. Skin I can still taste if I let myself remember.
I don’t let myself remember.
Those eyes—sharp even exhausted—find mine across the room. The tension from last night sits heavy. Unspoken. Unresolved. The kind of weight that doesn’t lift just because morning came.
“Did you rest?” Her voice is hoarse with sleep. Lower than usual. It does things to me I have no business feeling.
“No.”
“You should have woken me for watch.” She stands, and the blanket falls away. Just the shirt now, hanging to mid-thigh, bare legs underneath. She’s kicked off the oversized pants at some point. Probably uncomfortable.
I force my eyes up. Keep them on her face. “You needed rest.”
Another silence. This one sharper. She moves to the fireplace, and I track the movement despite myself. The way she walks…even exhausted, even hurt, there’s an effortless grace to it. Dragon heritage showing through. And witch.
She keeps herself apart. Learned her lesson about getting too close. The blanket trails behind her, and I notice the scrapes on her calves from crawling through rock.
Evidence of everything we survived.
“Any word from Aurora?” she asks.
I gesture at the comm device, keeping my voice level. Professional.
