Not big. Not wild.
Just a concentrated, molten bead of heat that pulses like a heartbeat.
Something in my chest answers.
“Thorne,” I whisper.
“This way is rarely used,” he says, eyes never leaving mine. “It is intense for mortals. Disorienting. So I do not choose it lightly.”
“So why choose it now?” I ask, my voice barely more than breath.
He steps closer, so close the world narrows to him, his heat, his scent—smoke and iron and something that is just Thorne.
“Because you can take it, Shula. And I must have you in our bed, now,” he murmurs, and there’s no teasing in him now.
Only raw honesty.
I swallow. He continues.
“I cannot bear to wait another minute.”
My stomach drops and soars at the same time.
It’s unsettling, being wanted like this.
Even more unsettling wanting him back, this much, this fast, this deep.
My brain whispers that nothing this intense can be safe.
My heart whispers that it’s already too late.
He threads our fingers together, his flame-hand cool enough not to burn.
“Stay with me,” he says. “Focus on my voice.”
“Yes. Okay,” I murmur, and I do. I focus.
His eyes flare—a brief, bright flash of molten gold and amber—and then he crushes the flame in his fist.
The world explodes.
Not in heat exactly, not at first—more like colorless light.
Every sense is yanked inside out. The ground disappears.
Up and down stop existing.
For a few terrifying seconds, I feel unmade.
Like my body is just a suggestion the universe is considering taking back.
I would panic if I could form a thought.
But all I can feel is him.
Thorne’s arms band tight around me, one at my back, one under my thighs like he scooped me up mid-fall. His power wraps around my mind like a shield.
Just like the enormous flame wings that seem to sprout from his back. They circle me like a cage.
