Our tent is warm and silent.
Wards flicker softly at the edges, responding to my presence, retreating as we pass.
Inside, I carry her straight to the bathing chamber—luxurious, carved of black volcanic stone and veined with glowing orange crystal.
My fire lives here.
It recognizes her now.
The room warms for her.
I set her down gently and turn the obsidian tap.
Hot water steams instantly, cascading down from the ceiling like falling flame.
Then I turn to her.
She is watching me.
Bright-eyed. Breath shallow.
Pupils blown wide.
The scent of her desire is the only thing anchoring me to this plane.
“May I remove your clothing, Shula?” I ask, voice rough with restraint. “May I rinse the pool waters from your skin?”
She nods.
Slow. Sure. Trusting.
Mine.
I don’t need to touch the linen to remove it.
And my fire does not destroy it, either.
No, my magic is precise. Purposeful.
With a flick of will, the soaked white garment unfastens, falls, disappears into harmless smoke.
My fire obeys me.
Always has.
Except when it comes to her.
Because she is blinding.
Gods, she’s so beautiful it’s an ache behind my ribs.
My clothes vanish the same way—burned from existence without a spark touching her.
And I am bare before her.
Truly bare.
Not just flesh. Not just muscle. Not just power, though that hums through every inch of me like thunder waiting to strike.
