“I wouldn’t expect anything less.” I turn toward the door, already regretting the decision to move her, to give her space, light, and small comforts that will only make disposing of her more complicated when the witch finally arrives to pass judgment. “But understand this, Firecracker. You’re in the heart ofmy territory, surrounded by beings that could track you through any terrain, outrun you through any escape attempt, and eliminate you before you made it five miles from this compound. Run if you want… it’ll only make the hunt more interesting.”
I pull the door closed behind me and engage the locks, mechanisms clicking into place with sounds that promise security, containment, and absolute control over who enters and exits this space. But as I walk away, heading back toward the main club room where my dying flame continues burning with borrowed brightness, something in my chest refuses to settle properly.
She didn’t break.
Seven days of calculated brutality. Of isolation, fear, and pain designed specifically to strip away defiance and replace it with compliance, and she emerged unbroken. Battered, yes. Wounded, absolutely. But her core remains intact, that stubborn spark of fury and determination that makes my dragon interested in ways I can’t afford to entertain.
Dangerous, that’s what she is.
Not because of any supernatural abilities or hidden magic, because she refuses to bow, and every instinct I’ve honed overcenturies of leading this club tells me that people who won’t break either become invaluable allies or devastating enemies. And I have absolutely no idea which category she falls into yet.
Scar finds me in my quarters an hour later, appearing in that unsettling way vampires have of simply ceasing to exist in one location and manifesting in another without the transition in between. He leans against the doorframe with casual elegance that belies the predator coiled beneath designer clothes and sophisticated manners, red eyes gleaming with interest that suggests he already knowsexactlywhat I did and has opinions about it.
“You moved her.” It’s not a question because Scaralwaysknows what happens in this compound, his supernatural senses tracking movement and emotion through walls thick enough to stop mortal surveillance. “Gave her the room with the window and actual amenities instead of keeping her in isolation until she snapped.”
“She wasn’t going to snap.” I don’t look up from the paperwork spread across my desk, shipping manifests for next week’s cursed artifact delivery, contracts that need signatures, the endless administrative burden of running a criminal empire disguised as legitimate business. “Seven days proved that. Continuing to waste resources on ineffective methods serves no purpose except satisfying vindictive impulses I don’t have time to indulge.”
“Bullshit!” Scar pushes off the doorframe and crosses to my desk in movements that flow with deadly grace, wrapped in the appearance of civility. “You moved her because seeing her unbroken bothered you in ways you’re not ready to examine. Because the flame responds to her touch, and that terrifies you more than you’re willing to admit. Because despiteevery rational instinctscreamingthat she’s a problem you shouldeliminate immediately, some part of you wants to understand what she is before making that final decision.”
I look up, meeting his ancient gaze with enough ice bleeding from my eyes to frost the air between us. “Careful, brother. Your observations are venturing into territory I haven’t given you permission to explore.”
“Five centuries of existence have taught me when to push and when to back off.” His smile carries fangs and amusement in equal measure. “This is me pushing. Because you’re my president, and when you make decisions based on emotion instead of logic, it affectseverymember of this club. So, I’m asking directly… what’s your play here, Raze?”
The question hangs between us, heavy with implications I’m not ready to unpack.
What is my play?
Keep her alive until the witch arrives to pass judgment?
Study her until I understand why the flame reacts to her presence?
Use her skills to manage the club’s finances while she’s trapped here anyway?
Or something else entirely, something I don’t have words for yet, something that involves the way she looked at me with steady eyes and defiance even when chained and bleeding?
“My play is information.” The lie comes easily, practiced and smooth, exactly the kind of calculated response Scar expects from me. “She touched my flame and made it burn brighter than it has in decades. That suggests either a latent magical ability she’s unaware of or a connection to something powerful enough to influence ancient dragon magic. Either option requires investigation before we make permanent decisions about her future.”
“And if the investigation reveals she’s just human?” Scar tilts his head, studying me with the kind of clinical detachment thatcomes from watching centuries of drama unfold and learning to recognize patterns before they fully form. “Stubborn and defiant, yes, but ultimately mortal and incapable of affecting magic beyond coincidence?What then?”
“Then the witch makes her judgment, and we abide by whatever law she pronounces.” I return my attention to the paperwork, dismissing the conversation through body language since direct orders rarely work on beings as old as Scar. “Until that moment arrives, she’s a prisoner with privileges determined by her usefulness. Nothing more complicated than that.”
He lets out a small chuckle. “If you say so, Prez.” Scar heads toward the door but pauses at the threshold, glancing back with an expression that suggests he sees through every deflection I just offered. “But for what it’s worth, I’ve been feeding on human emotion for longer than most civilizations have existed. I know what attraction tastes like, what fascination smells like, what dangerous interest feels like when it’s bleeding off someone in waves they don’t realize they’re projecting.”
He’s gone before I can formulate a response, disappearing into whatever shadows he emerged from, leaving me alone with paperwork and thoughts I don’t want to examine too closely.
Attraction.
Fascination.
Dangerousinterest.
All words that don’t apply to prisoners, to problems, to humans who represent everything I should eliminate to protect what’smine.
But still, the flame in the dome burns brighter every time I pass it.
And I catch myself wondering what she’s doing in that room, whether she’s treating her wounds properly, whether she’s looking out that barred window and plotting escape attempts I’ll have to thwart, whether she’s as intrigued by the connectionbetween us as I am despite every rational instinct screaming otherwise.
Dangerous.
