SCARLETT
Iwake up dying.
There’s no other explanation for the pounding in my skull or the dry, sandpaper feel of my mouth. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. My head throbs with every heartbeat—loud, relentless, punishing.
For a second, I don’t move. Because moving feels like a bad idea. And I’ve already made enough of those.
Then… I become aware of two things.
One. I’m not alone.
Two. My hand hurts. My left ring finger.
I frown, lifting it slowly into view. There’s ink on my finger—dark, permanent.
Not a smudge. Not a stamp.
A ring.
Of fire.
My stomach drops. “No way,” I whisper.
Memory doesn’t come back all at once.
It hits in pieces.
His hands. My laugh. The way I pulled him closer instead of pushing him away… how he said my name like it meant something.
Oh no.
“Oh no,” I say out loud this time.
Something shifts beside me—warm, solid, and very much real.
I turn my head. And there he is.
Donovan.
Phoenix.
Flat on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes like he’s trying to block out the world. Or maybe the consequences of it.
For a moment, I just stare. Because now that I’m not drunk, and he’s not wearing a shirt, he’s… a lot.
Broad shoulders. Defined chest. Skin still warm like the night hasn’t quite let go of him yet.
My eyes drag lower before I can stop them.
It’s a mistake.
Now I remember what it felt like to touch him.
Heat climbs into my cheeks.
Is he naked?
Am I?
