“Dammit, Drayke.” The words come out hoarse. Frustrated. “Dammit.”
I sink onto the couch. Press my palms against my eyes until I see stars.
He wants me. That much is undeniable—the way his hands shook when he touched my face, the way his voice broke when he said my name, the way his whole body strained toward mine even as he forced himself to step back.
He was so close. So close to giving in. I could see it in his eyes—the moment when want nearly won over fear.
But the dragon is stronger than his desire. Or maybe his fear is stronger than both.
He’s terrified.
Not of me. Of himself. Of what his power could do to me if he stopped fighting it for even a moment.
The last Fire-Bringer died in the claiming.
I watched her die.
How long has he been carrying that? How many centuries has he spent alone, convinced that his touch is lethal, that loving him means dying?
My anger drains away, leaving exhaustion in its wake.
He’s not trying to control me. Not really. He’s trying to protect me—from the rogues, from the danger, from himself and the dragon inside him that wants to claim and mark and possess. And he’s not wrong about the threats. The rogues are real. My power is unpredictable. I almost died.
But he’s wrong about the solution. Shutting me out doesn’t keep me safe—it just keeps me in the dark. And I deserve better than that. We both do.
His restraint isn’t rejection.
It’s love.
Twisted. Terrified. Self-destructive. But love, nonetheless.
I pull my hands from my face. Stare at my palms—at the faint glow of fire still simmering beneath my skin.
I’m a Fire-Bringer. The first in centuries. My power is growing every day, responding to threats and emotions with increasing strength.
What if I’m the one who can survive the claiming fire?
What if I’m the one who can finally set him free?
The questions settle into my chest, taking root.
I stand. Move to the window. Watch the forest where Drayke disappeared, knowing he’s out there somewhere, fighting his own demons, probably convincing himself that pushing me away is the right thing to do.
You think you’re protecting me by running.I press my palm against the cool glass.But I’m tired of being protected. I’m tired of being fragile. I’m tired of watching you suffer because you’re afraid of what might happen.
The fire in my blood pulses. Warm. Steady. Mine.
I’m not the Fire-Bringer who died. I’m not fragile. I’m not weak.
And I’m not giving up on him.
He’ll come back. He promised—before nightfall, he said. And when he does, we’re going to talk. Really talk. About the claiming, about his fear, about what I’m willing to risk to be with him.
Because here’s the thing about fire: it burns brightest in the darkest places. It destroys, yes—but it also transforms. Forges. Creates anew.
I’m done being afraid of what I might become.
It’s time to find out what we could be together.
