Not the careful, controlled flames she’s been practicing. This is raw power—primal, devastating, the kind of fire that exists at the heart of stars. It engulfs the rogue completely, pours into his mouth when he screams, burns him from the inside out.

  Even from above, I can feel the heat. Can smell the char of scales and flesh. Can hear the rogue’s shriek cut short as fire consumes his lungs.

  He doesn’t even have time to shift.

  Within seconds, there’s nothing left but ash drifting on the wind.

  Selene stands frozen, hands still raised, flames still licking at her fingers. Her face is pale. Her whole body is trembling.

  “What the hell was that?” Her voice cracks. “What the HELL was that?”

  The aerial rogue chooses that moment to dive.

  Not at me. At her. He saw what she did to his partner, and now he’s abandoning strategy for rage—plummeting toward her with claws extended and murder in his eyes.

  I slam into him from the side.

  We crash through the trees, scales scraping bark, wings tangling in branches. I don’t bother with finesse. Don’t waste time on strategy. My claws find his throat and I rake deep, pouring fire into the wounds, letting the white-gold blaze that only a Guardian King commands consume him from within.

  He burns.

  I let him fall—ash and embers scattering through the canopy—and bank hard toward the ground.

  Selene is still standing. Still trembling. The flames on her hands have died, but smoke curls from her fingertips.

  And then I see the blood.

  It’s spreading across her shoulder, soaking through her shirt in dark, wet blooms. Her left arm hangs at an odd angle, three parallel gashes carved from shoulder to elbow. Deep. Vicious. Made by claws that knew exactly where to strike.

  The dying rogue. He must have lashed out with his claws before the fire consumed him. One final act of spite from a creature already burning to death.

  I shift before I hit the ground, the transformation agonizing, too fast, bones cracking back into human form. I’m running before I’m fully changed, catching her as her knees buckle.

  “Selene.” Her name tears from my throat. “Selene, look at me.”

  Her eyes find mine. Glassy. Unfocused. The color is draining from her face with terrifying speed.

  “Drayke?” Her voice is thin. Wrong. “I don’t... I don’t feel right.”

  I examine the wounds. My blood turns to ice.

  The edges are already blackening. Dark veins spread from the gashes, crawling beneath her skin like poison-filled roots.

  Because that’s exactly what they are.

  “Poison.” The word comes out broken. “They coated their claws in Fire-Bringer poison.”

  “That’s... that’s a thing?” She tries to laugh. It comes out as a cough.

  “It’s designed to suppress your fire. Weaken your blood.” I gather her into my arms, trying to be gentle, trying not to jostle the wounds. “We need to get you back to the cabin. I have antidotes⁠—”

  “Drayke.” Her hand finds my chest, presses weakly against my heart. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t.” The dragon howls inside me, rage and terror tangled together. “Don’t apologize.”

  “I shouldn’t have... I didn’t mean to...” Her eyes flutter. “The fire just happened. I couldn’t control it.”

  “You were magnificent.” The words rip from me before I can stop them, rough and raw and absolutely true. “Never apologize for being magnificent.”

  Her lips curve. The faintest echo of a smile. “Magnificent. I like that.”

  Then her eyes close, and she goes limp in my arms.

  I run.

  The forest blurs past me. Branches claw at my skin. My wounds from the aerial fight are still bleeding, but I don’t feel them. Don’t feel anything except the weight of her in my arms and the terror clawing at my chest.

  She’s dying. Our mate is dying. Failed to protect her. Failed⁠—

  I shut out the dragon’s howling. Focus on the path. Focus on reaching the cabin.

  The antidote is in my pack. Rurik prepared it years ago, after we learned the rogues were developing poisons specifically designed to target Fire-Bringers. We thought it was paranoia at the time. Overkill for a bloodline that had supposedly ended centuries ago.

  Now it might be the only thing that saves her life.

  The cabin appears through the trees. I shoulder through the door, lay her on the couch as gently as I can manage. Her skin is ashen. The dark veins have spread to her neck, creeping toward her jaw.

  She’s breathing. Barely. Each inhale shallow and rattling.

  I tear through my pack. Find the vial Rurik made—thick glass, dark liquid, sealed with wax and a prayer. The antidote. The only thing standing between her and a slow, agonizing death.

  I force it between her lips. Hold her jaw closed until she swallows reflexively. Once. Twice. The whole vial.

  Then I wait.

  Minutes pass. Each one an eternity. I count her heartbeats. Count her breaths. Watch the dark veins crawling toward her face and will them to stop.

  Please. The word is foreign to me. I don’t pray. Don’t beg. Haven’t in centuries. Please.

  The dark veins stop spreading. Start to recede. Color returns to her cheeks—slowly, painfully slowly, but returning.

  I sink to my knees beside the couch. Press my forehead to the cushion near her hip. Try to remember how to breathe.

  She’s alive. She’s alive. She’s⁠—

  “Drayke?”

  Her voice is weak. Thready. But it’s her voice, and my chest cracks open at the sound.

  I lift my head. Find her watching me with those gray eyes—still glassy, still unfocused, but open. Alive.

  “You stayed.” She sounds surprised.

  “Where else would I go?”

  “Don’t know.” Her hand moves. Finds mine. Holds on with strength that shouldn’t be possible given what she’s just survived. “You usually run.”

  The accusation lands. It’s deserved.

  “Not this time.” I turn my hand over, lace my fingers through hers. Her skin is still too cold, but her grip is firm. “Not anymore.”

  She sleeps for hours.

  I don’t leave her side. Don’t let go of her hand. The dragon paces inside me, restless and guilty, replaying the attack over and over. Every moment I was too slow. Every second I failed to protect her.

  She killed a rogue with her bare hands. Incinerated him with fire that rivaled my own.

  And it nearly cost her everything.

  When she wakes again, the sun has set. The cabin is dark except for the fire I’ve built in the hearth—real fire, not dragon flame, though I had to remind myself of the difference.

  I’ve cleaned her wounds while she slept. Applied salves that will speed the healing. Changed her into a clean shirt from the dresser—an act that required every ounce of control I possessed, keeping my eyes averted, my touch clinical despite the dragon’s howling protests.

  She’s my mate. Injured. Vulnerable. And I had to undress her to tend her wounds.

  The dragon wanted to wrap her in my arms and never let go. I settled for clean bandages and a blanket.

  “Water?” Her voice is stronger now. Rough with sleep, but stronger.

  I have a glass ready. Help her sit up, hold it to her lips while she drinks. The wounds on her shoulder have closed—the antidote working faster than I’d dared hope—but dark scars remain. Marks that may never fully fade.

  She’ll carry those scars for the rest of her life. Because of me. Because I wasn’t fast enough.

  “Stop.” Her hand covers mine on the glass. “I can hear you blaming yourself from here.”

  “I should have⁠—”

  “You should have what? Been in two places at once?” She takes the glass from my hand, sets it aside. “There were two of them, Drayke. You were fighting one while the other came after me. That’s not failure. That’s math.”

  “You could have died.”

  “But I didn’t.” She holds up her hand, and a small flame dances to life on her fingertip. “I burned him to ash. With my bare hands. That’s... that’s insane, right? That actually happened?”

  “It happened.”

  “Magnificent, you said.” The flame flickers, dims. “Is that what I am? What Fire-Bringers are?”

  “Yes.” The word comes out rougher than I intend. “Your bloodline carries fire that can rival dragon flame. When threatened, when desperate—” I break off. Try again. “What you did today took most Fire-Bringers years to master. You did it on instinct.”

  “It didn’t feel like instinct.” She stares at her hands. At the fingers that channeled enough fire to reduce a dragon to ash. “It felt like drowning. Like being swept away by a flood and just... hoping I’d wash up somewhere safe.”

  “That’s how it starts. Raw and uncontrolled.” I take her hands in mine before I can think better of it. Her fingers are cold. Trembling slightly. “But you survived. You controlled it enough to direct it at the enemy instead of everything around you. That’s more than most manage their first time.”

  She’s quiet for a moment. The flame on her finger dies.

  “They were after me specifically. Weren’t they?”

  “Yes.”

  “The poison. It was designed for Fire-Bringers.”

  “Yes.”

  “So this isn’t random. It’s not rogues stumbling across me by accident.” She meets my gaze. No fear in her eyes—just grim understanding. “They’re hunting me.”

  “Yes.”

  “And this won’t stop, will it?” Her voice is steady. Accepting. “No matter where I go. No matter what I do. They’ll keep coming until they get what they want.”

  “Yes.” The admission tastes like failure. “It won’t stop.”

  She nods. Slow. Thoughtful. Processing the reality of her new existence with the same stubborn practicality that’s defined her since the moment she arrived on this mountain.

  “Then I need to get stronger.” She sits up straighter, wincing at the pull of her healing wounds. “I need to learn to control this fire instead of just reacting with it. I need⁠—”

  “You need to rest.”

  “I need to be ready.” She catches my arm when I try to ease her back down. Her grip is weak, but her gaze is steel. “They’re not going to stop, Drayke. You said so yourself. So I can lie here feeling sorry for myself, or I can prepare for the next attack.” Her jaw sets in that stubborn line I’ve come to know so well. “I choose to prepare.”

  The dragon stirs. Not with frustration or fear, but with pride. Admiration.

  Strong. Our mate is strong.

  “In a few days.” I ease her back against the pillows despite her protests. “Tonight, you rest. Soon, we’ll train. Both fire and blade.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  She holds my gaze for a long moment. Searching for something. I don’t know if she finds it, but eventually she nods. Settles back. Lets her eyes drift closed.

  “You’re not running this time.” Her voice is already fading into sleep. “Noticed that.”

  “No.” I brush a strand of hair from her face. Let my fingers linger against her temple. “I’m not.”

  Her breathing evens out. Deepens. She sleeps, and I stay beside her, watching the firelight dance across her face.

  She didn’t run. She fought. She burned a rogue to ash and took poisoned claws across her shoulder and still—still—she’s planning for the next battle instead of fleeing for safety.

  Any other human would have broken by now. Would have begged me to take them away from this madness, to protect them from the monsters hunting them.

  Not Selene.

  She’s adapting. Becoming. Rising to meet a destiny she never asked for with the same stubborn determination she brings to everything else.

  And I’m falling.

  Faster than I can stop. Deeper than I can control. Every moment with her peels back another layer of the walls I’ve built, exposes another piece of the heart I’ve kept guarded for four centuries.

  I wanted to protect her from a distance. Wanted to keep her safe without letting her get close enough to destroy me.

  Too late for that now.

  The dragon doesn’t howl anymore. Doesn’t demand.

  It simply waits. Patient. Certain.

  Because we both know the truth.

  Running was never really an option.

  NINE

  SELENE

  The poison takes three days to fully leave my system.

  Three days of sleeping more than I’ve slept since childhood. Three days of Drayke hovering—bringing food, checking my wounds, watching me with an intensity that would be suffocating if it weren’t also strangely comforting. Three days of feeling the fire inside me shift and grow, responding to my recovery with an eagerness that borders on sentient.

  On the fourth morning, I wake up hungry. Actually hungry, not the weak, watered-down version I’ve been managing. My shoulder aches where the scars are still healing—three parallel lines that have faded from angry red to pale pink—but the bone-deep exhaustion is gone.

  I push myself upright, testing my body’s limits. Arms work. Legs work. The wound pulls when I stretch, but it’s manageable pain—the kind that reminds you you’re alive rather than making you wish you weren’t.

  The cabin is empty. Drayke’s been doing that—giving me space during the mornings, patrolling the territory, checking in with his brothers. I should probably feel abandoned. Instead, I’m grateful for the privacy.

  Because I have experiments to run.

  I start with the candles. Six of them arranged on the coffee table, wicks fresh and waiting. Before the attack, I could light one with concentrated effort. Now...

  I think about fire. Just think about it—the warmth, the light, the dancing hunger of flames.

  All six candles ignite at once.

  “Holy—” I jerk back, nearly falling off the couch. The flames are steady, controlled, burning exactly as candle flames should. But I didn’t focus. Didn’t concentrate. I barely even tried.

  I stare at my hands. They look the same as always—freckled, slightly calloused from sword training, nails bitten short. Nothing about them screams supernatural fire-wielder.

  But the power simmering beneath my skin tells a different story.

  I spend the next hour testing limits.

  The kettle on the stove heats to boiling with a touch—no flame beneath it, just my palm pressed against cold metal until steam rises. I try it again with a bowl of water, then with a damp cloth. Both times, the heat comes easily, almost eagerly, as if my fire has been waiting for permission to play.

  I can shape the candle flames now, bend them toward me or away, make them dance in patterns. When I focus hard enough, I can create a small sculpture of fire in my palm—a bird, a flower, a tiny dragon that makes me laugh despite myself.

  The dragon shape holds longest. Figures.

  The power responds to emotion. That much is clear. When I’m calm, the flames are steady. When frustration creeps in—when I fail to hold a shape for more than a few seconds—the fire flares unpredictably.

  And when I think about Drayke...

  The candle flames triple in height. I have to smother them with a thought before they catch the ceiling.

  Okay. Note to self: don’t think about the dragon while playing with fire.

  Too late. My mind is already there—his hands on mine during training, the heat of his chest against my back, the way he looked at me after the battle with raw, desperate relief. The way he stayed. The way he’s been staying, night after night, sleeping on the floor beside my couch because he refused to leave me alone while the poison worked its way out.

  The fire in my veins pulses. Warm. Wanting.

  I extinguish every flame in the room with a sharp exhale and force myself to focus on breakfast instead.

  He returns mid-morning, bringing cold air and the scent of pine.

  I’m in the middle of reheating my coffee with my bare hands—a trick I’ve just discovered works beautifully—when the door opens. His gaze drops to my palms wrapped around the mug, to the steam rising where none existed a moment ago.

  “Experimenting?”

  “Practicing.” I take a deliberate sip. Still perfect temperature. “Turns out nearly dying did wonders for my fire control.”

  His jaw tightens at nearly dying, but he doesn’t lecture. Progress.

  “Show me.”

  I set down the mug. Hold out my hand. A flame springs to life in my palm—steady, controlled, burning without consuming. I shape it into a sphere, then a spiral, then something that might be a butterfly if butterflies were made of living fire.

  Drayke watches without expression. But I’m learning to read him now—the slight widening of his eyes, the way his breath catches almost imperceptibly. He’s impressed. More than impressed.

  “That’s remarkable control for someone who’s been training less than a week.”

  “I’m a fast learner.” I close my fist, extinguishing the flame. “You keep saying that.”

  “Because it’s true.” He moves into the cabin, shrugging off his jacket. He’s been wearing human clothes more often lately—jeans and flannel instead of the leather and linen he seems to prefer. Making himself look less intimidating, maybe. Less other.

  It’s not working. He still moves with predatory grace, still radiates heat and power, still makes my pulse quicken every time he enters a room.

  “You’re staring.” His back is to me, but of course, he knows.

  “You’re stare-worthy.” The words slip out before I can stop them. I blame the lingering effects of the poison. Or the fire in my blood. Or the way his shoulders flex as he hangs his jacket.

  He turns. Catches my gaze. Holds it.

  “Selene.” My name sounds different in his mouth. Heavier. More significant.

  “Drayke.” I match his tone. Two can play this game.