Once, I catch the outline of wings against the midday sun. Gone before I can blink.

  Drayke paces the perimeter like a caged predator, tension radiating off him in waves. Each new threat ratchets his protectiveness higher. By mid-afternoon, he’s barely letting me out of arm’s reach.

  “They know what you are to me.” He stands at the window, watching the tree line with predator-sharp focus. “They’re trying to provoke a response.”

  “Good.” I join him at the window, our shoulders brushing. “I’m tired of hiding.”

  He turns. Looks down at me with an expression I can’t quite read—fury and fear and something hotter underneath. “You should be afraid.”

  “Should be. Aren’t.” I hold his gaze. “They can carve all the threats they want into dead animals. They can whisper my name until they’re hoarse. But I’m not running, and I’m not breaking. If they want me, they’ll have to come and get me.”

  His nostrils flare.

  “That fearlessness is going to get you killed.”

  “Maybe.” I reach up, touch his jaw. He leans into it despite himself. “Or maybe it’s going to keep me alive. Fear makes you stupid. Makes you hesitate. I’d rather die fighting than live cowering.”

  He catches my wrist. Presses his lips to my pulse point. The gesture is tender and possessive all at once.

  “You infuriate me.”

  “I know.”

  “And terrify me.”

  “I know that too.”

  “And—” He stops. Swallows hard. Whatever he was going to say dies on his tongue.

  I don’t push. Not now. There’s too much between us already—too much said and unsaid, too much want and fear tangled together like vines.

  “I need to check the eastern perimeter.” He releases my wrist. “Stay inside. Lock the door. Don’t open it for anyone but me.”

  “Yes, sir.” I mock-salute. He doesn’t smile, but the tension in his shoulders eases fractionally.

  He’s gone before I can say anything else.

  With Drayke patrolling and the cabin locked tight, I turn to Grandma’s journals.

  I’ve read them—or thought I had. The history of Fire-Bringers, the legends of dragons, the prophecies that seem to multiply the more I learn. But today, restless and frustrated with waiting, I examine the oldest journal more closely.

  A seam in the leather binding catches my eye. A hidden pocket I missed before.

  I work my fingers into the gap and pull out a folded cloth bundle, small enough to fit in my palm. The fabric is old—linen, maybe, yellowed with age and covered in symbols that make my eyes water when I stare too long.

  When I try to unwrap it, the symbols flare with heat. Not enough to burn, but enough to warn.

  Wards. Protection against anyone who isn’t meant to read what’s inside.

  I close my eyes. Focus on the fire in my blood—the power that’s become as familiar as breathing over the past days. Push that warmth into my fingertips, coaxing rather than forcing.

  The wards flicker. Resist. Then dissolve like morning mist, recognizing me as one of their own.

  Inside the cloth, a smaller journal. Leather so old, it’s almost black, pages brittle with age. The handwriting isn’t Grandma’s—it’s older, more formal, written in a dialect that takes me a moment to parse.

  But the diagrams need no translation.

  Dragons and women. Fire and flesh. A ritual described in meticulous detail across page after page.

  The claiming.

  I read with growing understanding. The ritual isn’t just physical—it’s magical. A merging of dragon fire and Fire-Bringer blood that creates a permanent mark. A joining so complete that the claimed pair can sense each other’s emotions, share strength across distances, fight as one.

  “Dragon’s fire flows into mate’s skin,” I read aloud, tracing the faded ink. “Creating permanent mark of claiming. Two become one, fire and blood, until death severs what life has joined.”

  Beautiful. Terrifying. Final.

  I turn the page and find the warnings.

  The claiming requires absolute trust. Complete surrender from both parties. If the Fire-Bringer resists—even unconsciously—the dragon’s fire will overwhelm instead of merge. Previous attempts without proper preparation... The next words are heavily underlined. ...resulted in the Fire-Bringer’s death.

  My breath catches.

  I flip through more pages. Notes in different hands—Fire-Bringers across generations, recording their experiences. Some successful. Many... not. The failures are described in clinical detail. The dragon lost control. The Fire-Bringer was consumed from within. The claiming fire burned too hot, too fast.

  But there’s a pattern in the successes. Trust, always trust. And time—time to build that trust, to strengthen the Fire-Bringer’s power, to prepare body and soul for the merging.

  “But what if I’m strong enough?” I whisper to the empty room. “What if I’m ready?”

  The fire in my blood pulses in response. Eager. Hungry.

  I close the journal and stare at my hands. Fire flickers between my fingers, controlled now, responding to my will instead of my emotions. My power has grown faster than any of us expected. Faster than Drayke’s fear can account for.

  Maybe I’m not like the others. Maybe the rules don’t apply the same way.

  Or maybe I’m fooling myself, and the claiming would burn me to ash just like it burned all the Fire-Bringers who came before.

  Either way, I deserve to know.

  I tuck the hidden journal back into its cloth wrapper and slide it into my pocket. Through the window, the sun is sinking toward the mountains, painting the sky in shades of blood and gold.

  The whispers have stopped. The shadows have stilled. Whatever game the rogues were playing, they’ve retreated for now.

  But they’ll be back. The deer made that clear enough. They know where I am, what I am, who I belong to. And they’re not going to stop until they have me.

  Unless I give them a reason to stop.

  I stare at my hands. Fire flickers between my fingers, brighter than it’s ever been. My power is growing—fast. Maybe fast enough.

  We’re going to have a conversation when he gets back. A real one. About the claiming. About the risks. About what I’m willing to sacrifice to be with him.

  Because I’m not running. I’m not hiding. And I’m sure as hell not letting fear decide my fate.

  Not anymore.

  TWELVE

  DRAYKE

  They find me at the eastern ridge, half a mile from the cabin. Close enough to hear Selene scream if she needed me. Far enough that she won’t overhear what my brothers have to say.

  Zyphon materializes from the shadows between the pines, violet eyes grave. Rurik drops from the sky in dragon form, shifts mid-landing, his usual grin nowhere to be seen. Auren arrives last, golden hair catching the late afternoon light, expression carved from ice.

  “You saw the deer.” Not a question.

  “We saw it.” Auren’s voice could freeze fire. “Along with the runes on the trees. The whispers. The shadow scouts circling your territory all day.”

  “I’ve been tracking them.” Zyphon’s shadows ripple with barely contained violence. “Six rogues, rotating in pairs. They’re not hiding anymore, Drayke. They want you to know they’re watching.”

  “Let them watch.” My dragon snarls beneath my skin. “Let them come. I’ll burn every last one of them.”

  “That’s exactly what they want.” Auren steps closer, lowering his voice even though we’re alone. “I intercepted a message last night. Rogue communications, encrypted with old magic. It took me hours to break it.”

  My blood runs cold. “What did it say?”

  “General Veylor is coming. Personally.” Auren’s golden eyes bore into mine. “Soon. The message didn’t specify when—could be tomorrow, could be tonight. He’s bringing a full war party—twenty dragons, maybe more. And he’s not coming to negotiate.”

  “Veylor.” The name tastes like ash. I remember him from the old wars—brutal, patient, missing a wing from a battle he should have lost. The kind of enemy who plays the long game. “He’s been planning this.”

  “For months,” Zyphon confirms. “The attacks on your territory, the rogue who tested her power, the coordinated ambush—all of it was reconnaissance. He’s been studying you. Studying her. Finding your weaknesses.”

  “And now he’s found one.” Rurik’s voice is uncharacteristically serious. “An unclaimed mate. A Fire-Bringer whose power isn’t anchored. Brother, you know what that means.”

  I know. We discussed it at the last meeting—the vulnerability, the risk of magical compulsion. But hearing it again, with Veylor’s name attached, makes it real in a way it wasn’t before.

  “There’s more.” Auren’s jaw tightens. “The message mentioned a ritual. Blood magic. They don’t just want to capture her, Drayke. They want to drain her. Use her blood to unseal the Dominion Relic and bind her fire to Veylor’s will.”

  “She’d die.” The words come out hollow.

  “Slowly. Painfully.” Zyphon doesn’t soften the truth. “The ritual requires her to be alive for the extraction. It could take hours. Days.”

  The image hits me like a physical blow. Selene strapped to an altar, her blood draining into carved channels, her screams echoing off stone walls while Veylor watches with patient satisfaction.

  My dragon erupts. Fire blazes from my skin, scorching the pine needles at my feet, sending my brothers back a step.

  “I’ll kill him.” The words aren’t entirely human. “I’ll tear him apart scale by scale. I’ll⁠—”

  “You’ll claim her.” Auren cuts through my rage with surgical precision. “Tonight. Before Veylor arrives. A claimed mate can’t be compelled, can’t be drained for blood magic. The claiming mark protects her in ways your patrols never can.”

  “You know why I can’t.” The fire dies as quickly as it rose, leaving cold dread in its place. “My dragon is too powerful. The claiming fire⁠—”

  “Could kill her. Yes. You’ve said.” Auren steps into my space, close enough that I can see the frustration cracking his icy composure. “But listen to me carefully, brother. If you don’t claim her, she dies anyway. Not quickly. Not cleanly. Veylor will make it last. He’ll make you watch.”

  “And then he’ll use her power to destroy everything we’ve built.” Rurik’s voice is quiet. Deadly serious. “The Brotherhood. The territories we protect. Every human and dragon who depends on us for safety. All of it, gone, because you were too afraid to try.”

  “This isn’t about fear.” But even as I say it, I know it’s a lie. “This is about not wanting to be the one who kills her.”

  “Then let Veylor do it instead?” Zyphon’s shadows coil around him, reflecting his disgust. “At least your hands would be clean. Is that what you want? To stand at her grave knowing you could have saved her, but you chose to let her suffer instead?”

  “That’s not—” I stop. Breathe. Force myself to think past the dragon’s roaring fury and the cold terror beneath it.

  They’re right. I hate that they’re right.

  If I claim her and lose control, she dies. But it would be quick. Merciful, compared to what Veylor has planned.

  If I don’t claim her, she dies anyway. Slowly. Screaming. While I watch helplessly from whatever cage they throw me in.

  “How long do I have?” The words scrape out of my throat.

  “You don’t.” Auren’s expression doesn’t soften. “Veylor could arrive tonight. Tomorrow. An hour from now. There’s no time to train her power, no time to prepare her for the claiming. You have to decide, Drayke. Now. Tonight. Before they come for her.”

  He grips my shoulder, hard. “Claim her or lose her. Those are your only options.”

  They disperse after that—Rurik taking the northern patrol, Zyphon melting into shadows to hunt the scouts, Auren heading back to decode more intercepted messages. All of them preparing for a battle that could come at any moment.

  I stay behind. Stare at the scorched earth where my fire erupted.

  No time. No preparation. Just a choice that could kill the woman I⁠—

  I stop the thought before it completes. But the truth of it burns in my chest anyway.

  The woman I love.

  I think of her. The stubborn courage. The dark humor in the face of horror. The way she scrubbed blood from the porch boards this morning without flinching.

  The way she looked at me last night—not with fear, but with trust. With want. With a certainty that should have terrified her but somehow didn’t.

  Complete trust.

  The claiming requires absolute trust, the old texts say. If the Fire-Bringer resists—even unconsciously—the dragon’s fire will overwhelm.

  But Selene doesn’t resist. Selene challenges and demands and pushes, but she doesn’t resist. Not me. Not us. Even when I gave her every reason to run, she stayed. She fought. She chose.

  Maybe that’s enough. Maybe her trust and her fire and her stubborn refusal to break are enough to survive what I am.

  Maybe.

  I head back toward the cabin as the sun sinks toward the mountains. Through the window, I can see her silhouette—sitting by the fire, waiting for me.

  Claim her or lose her.

  Tonight.

  THIRTEEN

  DRAYKE

  I’ve made my decision.

  No more waiting. No more excuses. Veylor could arrive any moment, and an unclaimed mate is a dead mate. My dragon has been roaring the same truth since I left my brothers in the forest: claim her or lose her.

  So I’ll claim her. Tonight. And pray to every god I’ve ever cursed that her fire is strong enough to survive mine.

  The walk back from the eastern ridge feels longer than usual. My boots crunch over pine needles, but my mind is already at the cabin, running through how to tell her. What words to use.

  The claiming could kill her. That truth hasn’t changed. But leaving her unclaimed guarantees her death—slowly, painfully, at Veylor’s hands. Between a chance of survival and certain torture, the choice is clear.

  Selene is curled on the couch with her grandmother’s journals when I return. Firelight plays across her features, catching the determined set of her jaw. She looks up as I enter, gray eyes searching my face.

  “You look like you’ve decided something.”

  “I have.” I cross the room. Kneel in front of her so we’re eye to eye. “Selene, I need to claim you. Now.”

  Her breath catches. She sets the journal aside slowly, carefully. “You’ve been fighting this for days. What changed?”

  “Veylor is coming. Soon. Maybe tonight. And an unclaimed Fire-Bringer—” I force the words out. “They can use you against me. Compel you. Drain you. The claiming mark protects you in ways I can’t.”

  “And if it kills me instead?”

  The question hangs between us. I don’t look away from her eyes.

  “Then at least it will be quick. Merciful.” My voice cracks on the word. “Not what Veylor has planned. Not hours of—” I can’t finish.

  She reaches out. Cups my face in her hands. Her palms are warm, steady—steadier than mine.

  “I found a journal,” she says quietly. “A hidden one. I know what the claiming requires. Trust. Complete surrender.” Her thumbs trace my cheekbones. “I’m not afraid, Drayke.”

  “You should be.”

  “Probably.” A ghost of her usual humor flickers in her eyes. “But I trust you. Completely. And I’d rather die in your arms than survive without you.”

  My dragon roars triumph and terror in equal measure. She means it. Every word.

  “If I lose control⁠—”

  “You won’t.” She stands, pulling me up with her. “I’m a Fire-Bringer. Fire can’t burn fire.” Her hands slide down to grip my shirt. “Now stop stalling.”

  I carry her to the bedroom.

  She protests—“I can walk”—but my dragon won’t allow it. Not for this. She’s mine to protect, to worship, to claim. The short distance from couch to bed feels sacred, ceremonial.

  I lay her on the mattress and stand over her, drinking in the sight. Chestnut hair spread across the pillow. Gray eyes bright with want and trust. The racing pulse at her throat that calls to every predatory instinct I possess.

  Four hundred years I’ve waited for this. Four hundred years of control, of restraint, of believing I was too dangerous to claim a mate.

  “You’re sure.” One last chance for her to change her mind. One last moment of sanity before I lose myself in her completely.

  “Get down here.” She grabs my shirt and yanks.

  I go willingly. Cover her body with mine, brace myself on my forearms so I don’t crush her. Her legs wrap around my hips immediately, pulling me closer, and the heat of her through our clothes makes my dragon roar.

  “Clothes,” she mutters against my mouth between desperate kisses. “Too many clothes.”

  We strip each other with urgent hands. Buttons scatter across the floor. Fabric tears. I don’t care. Nothing matters except skin against skin, her warmth pressed to mine, the soft sounds she makes when my hands find bare flesh.

  She’s beautiful. Perfect. Every curve, every freckle, every scar from battles I wasn’t there to fight. I trace them with my mouth—the line of her collarbone, the swell of her breasts, the soft skin of her stomach that quivers under my lips.

  “Drayke.” My name on her lips is a prayer and a demand. Her fingers tangle in my hair, tugging me back up to her mouth.

  I settle between her thighs. Press my forehead to hers. Our breath mingles, ragged and hot, and I feel her heartbeat racing against my chest.

  “The claiming happens at the peak,” I manage, voice rough. “When the fire releases—it will mark you. Brand you as mine. There’s no going back after.”

  “Good.” She rolls her hips, making me groan. “I want everyone to know I’m yours. Want it burned into my skin so deep, nothing can erase it.”