I gasp awake, bolting upright as if something yanked me back into my body.
My heart slams against my ribs, my chest burning as I suck in air that feels too thin, too sharp. The room is dark, silent, whole. No ash. No flames. No screams.
Just my bedroom.
Just the steady hum of the valley outside.
My hand flies to my chest, fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt as if I can physically hold the fire in place. My mouth opens on instinct.
Damian.
The name trembles on my tongue, raw and desperate—but I swallow it back, clenching my jaw as I force my breathing to slow. I can’t call out to him. Not over a dream. Not when he’s finally giving me space, finally trusting me not to unravel uncontrollably.
He’s safe, I tell myself.
For now.
That's the reassurance I give myself, because truthfully, that's what I'm more concerned about—that something happened to him.
Because of me…
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, pressing my bare feet to the floor, grounding myself in the cool wood. The fire beneath my skin flickers restlessly, but stays contained, as if it’s listening this time.
I drag a shaky hand down my face and exhale.
It was just a dream.
Just a bad dream, and I'm sure of it, as sure as I am that I'm awake now, pinching the skin on my arm to come back to reality.
But the fear lingers, sharp and insistent, curling low in my gut like a warning I don’t know how to ignore.
Sleep doesn’t come back easily after that.
I lie there for a long time, in the stillness of the night, staring at the ceiling, listening to the steady rhythm of the valley waking around me; the distant rush of the river, the soft rustle of leaves brushing against the cabin walls, the muted sounds of early-morning activity far beyond the trees. Each sound anchors me a little more firmly into the present, reminding me that the fire is contained, that the demons are not clawing their way out of the earth, and that Damian is alive and not lost to my fear.
Eventually, the tightness in my chest eases.
I force myself out of bed before my thoughts can circle back to the dream, padding across the room to the small bathroom. Cold water splashes against my face, helping chase away the lingering heat beneath my skin, and when I look at my reflection, I barely recognize the woman staring back at me. My eyes look older somehow, darker around the edges, like I’ve lived a lifetime in the span of a few weeks.
I dress slowly, deliberately, choosing comfort over armor for once. When I step out of my room, the cabin smells differentthan it usually does: warm, inviting, threaded with something unmistakably human.
Food.
I pause at the end of the hallway, surprised by how that alone makes my chest soften.
The last time Damian tried to cook for me, I’d barely touched the plate. I’d sat there stiff and suspicious, convinced every kind gesture was another attempt to bind me tighter, another reminder that I didn’t belong here. Back then, accepting his food felt like accepting him, and I wasn’t ready for that.
This morning, my stomach growls softly in response to the smell.
The kitchen is bathed in early sunlight when I step inside, and Damian stands at the stove, sleeves rolled up, hair still slightly damp, as if he’s already been outside. He looks…normal. Grounded. Not the alpha, not the leader of a supernatural war, just a man making breakfast in a quiet cabin.
He glances up when he senses me, his gaze softening instantly.
“Morning,” he says gently, like he’s afraid of startling me.
“Morning,” I reply, my voice steadier than I expect it to be.
He doesn’t ask if I slept well. I’m grateful for the fact that he doesn't probe and just remains a quiet anchor in his presence. Instead, he gestures to the table, where a plate already waits for me with eggs, toasted bread, fruit, and a mug steaming quietly beside it.
