“The claiming fire could kill you.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“It’s not a risk I’m willing to take.”
“Maybe it should be my risk to take.” I sit up fully, the sheet pooling around my waist. “You just lit me up, Drayke. Set fire to every nerve ending in my body. And then you held back the one thing that would actually mean something permanent.”
“What we just did meant something.”
“Did it? Because from where I’m sitting, it feels like you gave me your body but kept everything else locked away.” The words are harsher than I intend, but I don’t take them back. “You lit me up and left me burning. Don’t pretend that was nothing—but don’t pretend it was everything either.”
He flinches. Actually flinches, like I’ve struck him.
“That’s not fair.”
“None of this is fair.” I keep my voice steady even though my heart is cracking. “Rogues hunting me isn’t fair. Prophecies aren’t fair. Falling for a man who’s too afraid to love me back isn’t fair. But here we are.”
He sits up. Swings his legs over the side of the bed. I watch his back—the tense line of his shoulders, the way his hands grip the edge of the mattress.
“I’m trying to keep you alive.”
“And I’m trying to actually live.” I reach for him. He pulls away before I can touch him. “Drayke?—”
“I can’t.” He stands. Starts gathering his clothes. His movements are jerky. Wrong. “I can’t give you that. Not yet. Maybe not ever.”
“So that’s it? We share this—” I gesture at the rumpled bed, at our discarded clothes, at the air still thick with the scent of sex and smoke. “—and you just walk away?”
“I’m not walking away.” He pulls on his shirt. Buttons it with fingers that aren’t quite steady. “I’m protecting you. From me. From what I could do if I stopped fighting this.”
“I’m not made of glass, Drayke.”
“No.” He turns to face me, and the pain in his eyes nearly breaks me. “You’re made of fire. And so am I. And when fire meets fire, it doesn’t always create warmth. Sometimes it creates destruction.”
He’s out the door before I can respond.
I stareat the empty doorway for a long moment.
My body is still humming with aftershocks. My skin still tingles where he touched me. The sheets smell like him—woodsmoke and pine and that indefinable essence that’s purely Drayke.
I should be angry. Should be furious that he walked out after what we just shared. But the only thing I can muster is a bone-deep exhaustion and a stubborn determination that surprises even me.
I wrap the sheet around myself and move to the window. The moon is full tonight, washing the forest in pale light. Somewhere out there, he’s running. Fighting his own demons. Convincing himself that leaving me alone and unsatisfied is somehow noble.
Idiot.The thought is almost fond.Beautiful, infuriating, self-sacrificing idiot.
The fire in my blood is quieter now—satisfied, at least partially. But that hollow ache remains. That sense of incompleteness that no amount of physical pleasure can fill.
He held back the claiming. Pressed his palm to my heart and stopped himself at the last moment, choosing fear over faith.
I understand why. Centuries of guilt have convinced him that his touch is lethal, that loving him means burning. He carries that death with him everywhere—a wound that never healed.
But I’m not her.
I’m not fragile. I’m not unprepared. I’m a woman who’s survived poison and prophecy and the slow, agonizing fall into loving someone who refuses to be loved.
I touch the spot over my heart. The skin still hums with residual heat from his hand. Still waiting for the fire he refused to give.
He believes distance keeps me safe. But safety is an illusion—the rogues have proven that. The prophecy has proven that. Nothing about this situation is safe.
