Page 54 of Born in Fire
I move away from the window, needing to keep moving as I speak.
“The first time he hit me was fourteen months in. An argument about a male colleague who texted me about a shift change. He apologized immediately, cried, bought me expensive gifts. Said it would never happen again. And I believed him because I needed to. Because I had nowhere else to go, no one else to turn to. He’d made sure of that.”
My hand unconsciously touches my cheekbone, where the bruise had bloomed like a dark flower.
“The second time was three months later. That’s when I ended up in hospital with a concussion and fractured ribs. I knew then it would never stop. That it would only escalate.” My voice grows stronger, the survivor speaking rather than the victim. “I leftwhile he was at work. Took only what I could carry. Started over with nothing but the certainty that I’d rather be alone forever than spend another day with someone who claimed to love me while systematically destroying me.”
I stop pacing, standing in the center of my apartment—the space I’ve built as my sanctuary after escaping.
“So when I see someone move with impossible speed and strength, when I witness rage that makes eyes glow and skin change, when I feel power that could easily harm me… it triggers every alarm system I’ve built to protect myself.”
The silence that follows feels weighted with his reaction.
“Juno,” he finally says, his voice raw. “I would never hurt you. What you saw—what you felt—it wasn’t rage directed at you. It was protection.”
“Tyler said he was protecting me too. From friends who ‘didn’t have my best interests at heart.’ From my own ‘self-destructive tendencies.’” I shake my head, though he can’t see it. “The line between protection and control is razor-thin.”
“I’m not Tyler.” The words come out almost as a growl.
“No, you’re not,” I agree. “Tyler was just a man. You’re… something else. What the hell did I see, Dorian?”
Another heavy silence before he speaks again.
“There are things about my family—about me—that I can’t fully explain,” he says carefully. “Not because I don’t want to, but because it is… forbidden.”
Yeah, right.
“More secrets.” I sit on the couch again, suddenly exhausted. “More half-truths.”
“Not by choice.”
“It’s always by choice, Dorian.” I press my fingers to my temples, where a headache is forming. “Every time you choose not to tell me something, that’s a decision you’re making. Andafter Tyler, I promised myself I’d never again accept partial information from someone who claims to care about me.”
“Idocare about you.” The raw honesty in his voice makes my chest ache. “More than I can explain. More than makes, sense given how little time we’ve known each other.”
“Then help me understand what I saw. What I felt. No more evasions.”
I hear him take another deep breath. “My family has… genetic differences. Traits that manifest under certain conditions—stress, danger, strong emotion. The temperature regulation, the physical capabilities, the eyes—all expressions of those traits.”
“You mean like a ‘warrior gene’?” I scoff.
“Something like that.” He sounds cagey.
“That’s not an explanation,” I say flatly. “That’s a carefully worded non-answer.”
“It’s all I can give you right now.” Frustration edges his tone. “There are others involved, Juno. Not just me. I can’t unilaterally decide to reveal everything.”
“Then we have a problem.” I stand again, my decision crystallizing. “Because I can’t—I won’t—get involved with someone who can’t be honest with me. Not after what I’ve been through.”
“You’re comparing me to your abuser.” The hurt in his voice is evident.
“No, I’m applying lessons I learned at great personal cost.” I run a hand through my hair, trying to organize my thoughts. “Look, I felt something with you that I’ve never felt before. A connection that seemed to override all my careful defenses. And that terrifies me almost as much as what I saw in you.”
“Juno—”
“Let me finish.” My voice grows stronger. “I spent months rebuilding myself after Tyler. Learning to trust my instincts again. Creating boundaries. And in the blink of an eye, you’vesomehow slipped past every wall I constructed. That’s not normal, Dorian. None of this is normal.”
“No,” he agrees softly. “It’s not.”
