Too late. My mind is already there—his hands on mine during training, the heat of his chest against my back, the way he looked at me after the battle with raw, desperate relief. The way he stayed. The way he’s been staying, night after night, sleeping on the floor beside my couch because he refused to leave me alone while the poison worked its way out.
The fire in my veins pulses. Warm. Wanting.
I extinguish every flame in the room with a sharp exhale and force myself to focus on breakfast instead.
He returns mid-morning,bringing cold air and the scent of pine.
I’m in the middle of reheating my coffee with my bare hands—a trick I’ve just discovered works beautifully—when the door opens. His gaze drops to my palms wrapped around the mug, to the steam rising where none existed a moment ago.
“Experimenting?”
“Practicing.” I take a deliberate sip. Still perfect temperature. “Turns out nearly dying did wonders for my fire control.”
His jaw tightens at nearly dying, but he doesn’t lecture. Progress.
“Show me.”
I set down the mug. Hold out my hand. A flame springs to life in my palm—steady, controlled, burning without consuming. I shape it into a sphere, then a spiral, then something that might be a butterfly if butterflies were made of living fire.
Drayke watches without expression. But I’m learning to read him now—the slight widening of his eyes, the way hisbreath catches almost imperceptibly. He’s impressed. More than impressed.
“That’s remarkable control for someone who’s been training less than a week.”
“I’m a fast learner.” I close my fist, extinguishing the flame. “You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true.” He moves into the cabin, shrugging off his jacket. He’s been wearing human clothes more often lately—jeans and flannel instead of the leather and linen he seems to prefer. Making himself look less intimidating, maybe. Less other.
It’s not working. He still moves with predatory grace, still radiates heat and power, still makes my pulse quicken every time he enters a room.
“You’re staring.” His back is to me, but of course, he knows.
“You’re stare-worthy.” The words slip out before I can stop them. I blame the lingering effects of the poison. Or the fire in my blood. Or the way his shoulders flex as he hangs his jacket.
He turns. Catches my gaze. Holds it.
“Selene.” My name sounds different in his mouth. Heavier. More significant.
“Drayke.” I match his tone. Two can play this game.
“We need to talk.”
Those four words. Never good. Never, ever good.
“About?”
“About what you are.” He crosses to the couch, sits at the far end—leaving space between us that feels deliberate. “What your power means.”
“I know what I am. Fire-Bringer. Rare bloodline. Target for rogues who want to use my blood for nefarious purposes.” I tick the points off on my fingers. “Did I miss anything?”
“You’re not just a Fire-Bringer.” His voice drops. “You’re the first Fire-Bringer in centuries. The bloodline was supposed tohave died out—we made sure of it, after the last one fell. Your grandmother hid you. Bound your power. Raised you away from our world specifically to keep you safe.”
“And now I’m here. In the middle of your world. With power I can’t fully control.” I lean back against the cushions, processing. “Lucky me.”
“You’re more than lucky.” He shifts, turning to face me more fully. The morning light catches the gold in his eyes. “You’re special. To our kind. To—” He breaks off. Jaw working.
“To?”
“To me.”
