I lean in. Press my lips to the corner of her mouth—not quite a kiss, but close enough to feel her shudder.
“I’ll let you get back to your reading, Dr. Byrne.”
I step around her and keep walking. Don’t look back. If I look back, I’ll pin her against the wall and forget every resolution I’ve made about patience.
Her sharp exhale follows me down the corridor. Then footsteps continuing in the opposite direction.
My dragon rumbles with satisfaction, even as the rest of me aches.
Soon, I tell it. Let her come to us.
The Brotherhood notices.
Of course, they notice. We’re not subtle—or rather, I’m not subtle. I’ve never been subtle a day in my immortal life.
Zyphon catches me tracking her during dinner, shadowed gaze moving between us with unsettling perception. He doesn’t speak. He never speaks. But the slight grin tells me he’s cataloged every glance, every too-long look.
Auren comments on her progress with formal approval that carries an undercurrent of suspicion. “The Fire-Bringer’s control has improved significantly. Your training methods must be effective.”
“My methods are unorthodox.”
“So I’ve observed.”
And then there’s Selene.
“The soundproofing in the guest quarters is excellent.” She says it casually, over breakfast, loud enough for Aisling to hear from across the table. “Just in case anyone was wondering. Very thick walls. The previous inhabitants valued privacy.”
Aisling chokes on her tea.
A blush spreads across her cheeks, crawls down her neck, disappears beneath the collar of her shirt. Her flame surges, then carefully banks. She refuses to meet my gaze while simultaneously refusing to look away.
“Good to know.” Rougher than intended. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Please do.” Selene’s smile is knowing. “Some conversations are better had without an audience.”
Aisling stands abruptly, mutters about research, and practically flees the hall.
Drayke sighs. Selene looks pleased with herself.
I wait exactly thirty seconds before following her out.
I findher in the library, surrounded by texts on Fire-Bringer history. She’s not reading them—just staring at the pages, fingers moving over the paper without purpose.
“You’re blushing.”
“I’m not.”
“You absolutely are. It’s charming.”
She looks up, and the intensity in her gaze makes my gut clench. “Selene was deliberately baiting us.”
“Selene was being helpful.” I lean against the doorframe. “In her extremely direct way.”
“Helpful.” The word drips skepticism.
“She likes you. Hopes you’ll be happy.” I pause. “Hopes we both will, I think.”
Aisling’s fingers still on the page. “And what would make you happy?”
