If he had not rejected her.
At the time, he’d seen no other option. Maya was part of his human life; she had no idea that shifters existed.
Let alone shifters as dangerous as he was.
Duskfire flickered beneath his skin, the shadowy wings that were always ready to unfurl and unleash their terrible power. Not a destructive power, but one that relied on hurts already endured, re-breaking old injuries to new, bloody pain. His duskfire was the most powerful in several generations. A power that made him the only suitable candidate to rule his clan.
A power that flared uncontrollably whenever he imagined claiming Maya Flores as his own.
He could never make her his. Not when it meant making her vulnerable to his magic.
They had worked together for less than a year. Scarcely more time than they had now been apart. And he could no longer say which was worse: all those days of delicious torment, having her so close and knowing she could never be his. Or this daily torture of her being gone.
She knew about shifters now, of course. She’d known even when he thought he was keeping the magic of the world secret from her, and her safe from it.
But she still didn’t know abouthismagic. Or why he had treated her the way he had.
His dragon stirred, and guilt tracked angry claws down his chest.
He’d rejected her to protect her. He had made his decision, and burned and salted the ground so there was no going back.
And she’d still ended up hurt.
At least where she is now, she’s safe,he reminded himself. His dragon subsided, smoke pouring in surly coils from its nostrils.
“Sir?”
Corin’s eyes snapped to his PA. “Ms. Blanc.”
“Your mail.”
He didn’t need to look at the clock. Every day at a quarter to nine, Ms. Blanc brought him a careful selection of the daily post for his personal attention—at least, as much personal attention as he could give in the time allocated before his next meeting. Invitations. Thank-yous. Veiled threats from other business competitors or dragon clans, for him to glare at…
Inside him, his dragon’s eyes opened wide. Something had caught its attention.
“What is that?” he asked.
Ms. Blanc blinked slowly. “Several invitations to charity events. A report from—”
“Not those.” The envelopes she was arranging on his desk were of no interest. Whatever had caught his dragon’s senses was still outside—a hint of something delicious. Something tempting and forbidden.
He stalked from his desk to the foyer outside. There: beside Ms. Blanc’s desk. A trolley stacked high with documents, envelopes, and parcels.
All his senses snapped onto one parcel. A reinforced mailer—nothing out of the ordinary about it.
The tantalizing hint became stronger. A scent.
Ms. Blanc’s heels tapped on the hardwood behind him. “I apologize, sir, I should have cleared that all—”
A scent heknew.
His dragon wanted to snatch the parcel and fly with it to the heart of his clan’s hoard, but he moved as though through syrup, picking it up with the slow reverence it deserved. How many hands had it been through on its way here? And yet it still retained a hint of the woman who’d sent it.
Why the hell was Maya Flores sending him mail?
The address on the front of the mailer was in her hand. His eyebrow lifted. She must have been angry when she wrote it; herecognized the firmness of those up-strokes, the decisive slash of the crossed T’s.
No need to wonder why Maya would be angry at him. He’d made sure of that. But what—
