THEN – AGE 17
The Children of the Flame
The air was a furnace, choking withheat and scent—smoke, pine sap, the thick press of sweat on skin. The lanterns barely held a flame, suffocated by the weight of the night. It felt like the world had slowed, just for this.
Zach’s fingers brushed mine as we slipped behind the chapel, and this time I grabbed them, held tight, even as my breath caught. The pine needles muffled our steps, but I knew someone could still hear. Someone could still see. The thought only made it worse.
“We shouldn’t be out here,” I whispered, but I was already pressing closer, my chest to his back as he paused in the shadows.
He turned, and I barely saw the grin before his hands were on me, rough, urgent, pulling me into the dark crease between the chapel wall and the trees. My back hit wood, and he braced his arm beside my head, trapping me.
“You always say that,” he murmured, voice hoarse. His breath hit my lips, and I felt him, all of him, the heat, the want, the barely-leashed restraint that thrummed through his body.
I nodded, barely. “And I always come.”
His eyes locked to mine, hungry, burning. His shirt was open, clinging to him like it didn’t want to let go. The line of his collarbone glistened with sweat, and ash clung to his throat like a brand. My fingers moved without thinking, tracing down his chest, feeling the rise and fall, the tension.
“You’re going to get caught,” I whispered, but even that sounded like a dare.
“Then let them catch me like this.” He grabbed my wrist, pressed it to his chest, where his heart hammered like thunder. “With you.”
And then he kissed me again, harder than before. This time, there was no hesitation, just heat and hunger and months of stolen glances breaking loose all at once.
His mouth crushed mine, and I gasped. He took advantage of it, tongue sweeping deep, claiming every breath. One hand tangled in my hair, the other slid down my spine, tugging me flush against him. No space. No air. No god between us.
My hands were under his shirt, palms roaming feverishly over warm skin, nails scraping lightly down his ribs. He hissed into my mouth, and the sound undid me.
He pressed his hips to mine, slow, deliberate. My head hit the wall behind me, and still I pulled him closer.
“You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he muttered against my neck, voice ragged, trembling with restraint. “I can’t think when you look at me like that.”
“Then don’t think,” I breathed. “Just—”
His mouth found my throat. Hot. Open. Desperate. I bit down on a gasp, fingers clawing at his back as he marked me, kissed me like he needed it to live.
All around us, the night held still. The chapel loomed behind my back like a silent witness. The cicadas screamed.
And still he didn’t stop.
His hand slid beneath the hem of my shirt, finding skin. My breath caught as his palm flattened low over my stomach, warm and shaking.
“If we go further,” he whispered, voice barely there, “I won’t be able to stop.”
I swallowed hard, heart pounding. “Then don’t.”
His forehead pressed to mine, both of us breathing hard.
“You know what they’ll do if they find us,” I said.
“Let ‘em.” His voice was rough, quiet. “I’d walk through that fire myself before I let them take this from me.”
Before I could answer, the sharp crack of a branch split the night.
We froze.
The shadows shifted, and then they were everywhere. Lantern light flashed across black coats and hard faces.
The Shepherds.
