A piece of myself—my flame, my essence—placed into the keeping of another.
I do not want that.
I have never wanted that.
Delia is comely—no, more than that.
She is striking.
Alive in a way that draws the eye and refuses to release it.
Claiming her would be no hardship.
But can I afford to give her a piece of me?
Will the boon be worth what I lose?
The cruelest truth is I do not even know if it will work.
I am not what you would call lovable.
Two-face.
Monster.
The one Nightfall calls when something must be destroyed utterly.
I am the harbinger of ash and sorrow, not tenderness.
I do not know how to be gentle without breaking something.
Including myself.
“Master,” Xavier, my most trusted servant, says quietly from the doorway. “It is time.”
And then I feel it—low and insistent—growing inside me like a campfire fed too much air.
Desire.
Anticipation.
Hope, sharp and dangerous.
My bone mask slides into place, white and black and terrible, the mark of my lineage and my station.
Thorne, Demon Lord of Fire, is a thing to be feared.
But the truth—the one that terrifies me most?
I do not want Delia to fear me.
I want her to choose me.
To want me.
To need me.
Maybe—gods help me—to love me.
