The flames jump. The air presses in. The walls tilt.
Amanda’s voice filters in from the phone, tinny and concerned. “Gem, babe, you okay? You look like you’re about to faint.”
“It’s just the candles.” I wipe the sweat from my forehead. “It’s a fucking furnace in here.”
The flames jump again. The shadows twist. My pulse hammers against my ribs.
I back away from the mirror, the hairs rising on the nape of my neck. There’s something in this room. Watching. Waiting.
Goose bumps rise along my arms as my gaze swings around. The fire grows higher, taller, casting long, dancing shadows on the walls, and for a moment, I swear the room darkens except for those blazing flames.
My breath quickens, and Amanda’s voice crackles through the phone, a distant, hollow sound I barely register. I sway on my feet, dizzy, disoriented as the flames reach toward me, higher, hotter, pulling me in—
“Gemma!” Amanda’s shriek yanks me out of the trance.
I blink, my senses snapping back into place, and that’s when I feel it.
Heat.
My hair.My hair is on fire.
Panic surges through me. I scream, slapping at the flames as they lick up the end of my ponytail.
I scramble out of the dressing room and finally manage to smother the flames when I crash straight intohim.
Two
I collide with a wall of solid muscle, my balance tiltingdangerously as I grasp at fabric—expensive, tailored fabric. And then a scent washes over me. Crisp, clean, familiar, tinged with apples and linen.
My stomach drops.
I know that scent. I know exactly who I’ve just crashed into.
And of course.Of coursehe’s here.
Alder.
He reaches out and grips my elbow to keep me upright. My pulse rattles through my veins as he braces me against his chest. His touch is steady, commanding, insistent—so sure it feels inevitable, like the sunrise or my own breath.
Alder Hawke always finds me when I’m at my weakest.
“Gemma.” My name rolls off his tongue like he owns it, like he always has.
His blue eyes lock on mine, burning through everyshield, exposing my raw nerves and hidden doubts.
I suck in panicked gulps of air, the dress squeezing me from every direction. I’m barely standing. Barely breathing. I must look like hell—flushed and flustered, corset strangling the life out of me while my boobs stage a prison break.
Embarrassment scorches my cheeks, and I know I’m tomato red, sweatin’ like a sinner in church, smelling like burnt hair.
And all the while, he’s just standing there, calm, composed, taking in every inch of the disaster that is currently me.
Elsie’s voice pierces the air like a siren. “Oh my goddess! Your hair!”
Her wild red curls bounce with every step as she darts over, round face flushed with panic, brown eyes scanning me and the singed ends of my ponytail.
I barely register her approach, my brain still catching up to the fact that Alder is here. Alder is touching me.
“Are you okay?!” She stops a few feet short, wringing her hands in front of her chest. “How did that even happen?” she asks, her voice pitching higher. “Not that it’s your fault! Obviously.”
