Page 73 of Born in Fire
Can’t.
Every time I close my eyes, I see her. Hair fanned out in a halo of blood. That fucking smile.“I’m glad. Me too.”
I tear the sheets off, stained with the stench of whiskey and sweat.
The bottle is empty. The second one too. Dragons can’t get drunk. Just another cosmic joke. We can burn cities. Level mountains. Live for centuries.
But we can’t escape our own fucking minds.
My apartment is a war zone. Shattered glass. Splintered furniture. Blood—mine—dried on the walls where I put my fist through brick. The dragon in me wanted to burn it all. Burn everything. Turn this city to ash and scatter it to the wind.
But she wouldn’t want that.
Juno.
Even thinking her name feels like swallowing glass.
I shower mechanically. Cold water. The silk scarf—the scarf she left behind—is the only thing I handle with care. I knot it around my neck, over the dragon claw marks I couldn’t be bothered to heal.
Let them scar. Let everything scar.
In the mirror, a stranger stares back. Hollow eyes. Unshaven jaw. The dragon tattoos on my chest seem to writhe with my rage, the ink suddenly too tight for my skin.
Centuries of existence, and I’ve never felt…this. This hollow. This raw. This fuckingangry.
They took her from me. The Syndicate. The Circle. I don’t care who is responsible. They’re all going to pay.
Every. Last. One.
The phone rings, and I scowl as Luke’s name flashes across the screen. But now’s not the time to be ignoring calls.
“What?”
“Are you…?” he starts cautiously before pausing and changing tack. “We’re meeting at Lydia’s place in Medina in an hour.”
“Fine.” I end the call and reach for my bike keys.
The Ducati roars to life beneath me as I grip the handlebars, feeling the power thrumming through my veins. I shoot out of my apartment’s barking bay, tires screeching against the asphalt, and let the adrenaline fuel every reckless turn.
The wind slices against my skin, cold and sharp, but I welcome it like an old friend. Each twist of the throttle sends me flying down streets, tearing through intersections and dodging pedestrians who barely have time to react.
As I hit the freeway, the world opens up around me. It’s beautiful, but it only reminds me of how fragile this life is—how quickly it can turn to shit.
I slam on the brakes as I approach Medina’s gates, gravel flying beneath my tires as I skid to a stop. Lydia’s mansion looms ahead—a fortress shrouded in opulence and secrecy. I cruise along the drive toward the parking area, kill the engine, and swing off my bike, storming toward those heavy wooden doors.
The scent of cedar and old money greets me as I enter, tension hanging thick in the air like smoke after a fire. Farrel Ludlow stands at one end of the entrance hall, arms crossed over his chest.
“Lydia’s waiting.” He gestures down a corridor lined with portraits that seem to watch my every move.
I give a tight nod as I set off in the direction of the vast room she uses for clan meetings. Ludlow’s footsteps ring behind me, but I don’t bother to look back at him.
Serena meets me along the way, her usual ice-queen demeanor softening.
“Dorian, I—”
“Don’t.” The word cuts like a blade. “Just… don’t.”
She nods once, a soldier recognizing a line not to cross. “They’re gathering in the main hall. Caleb’s bringing the Rossewyn woman.”
