Page 31 of Ashfall
Even through the fog of pain, I see her. Ember. Still standing. Still safe. Probably plotting ten ways to kill me in my sleep—and I’d let her, as long as she keeps looking at me like that.. Relief hits harder than the wound. My rage rides high and hard, clawing to be unleashed again. My dragon wants to burn. Everything. But not her. Never her.
I land hard, claws gouging deep ruts in the earth, the impact sending tremors through the scorched soil. Smoke curls from my nostrils in thick, angry streams. My body shakes—not just from pain, but from the effort of holding the dragon back. Rage and fire churn under my scales, barely contained. Blood drips from my wing, and every breath burns. I see her. Alive. Whole. And that should be enough.
But the sight of her—too close, too fragile—rips through my restraint. My eyes blaze, pupils narrowing to slits as a guttural growl tears from my throat. I snarl at her, feral and raw, a sound that carries the edge of a threat—and a desperate plea.
Flames shimmer beneath my scales, licking the edges of my jaw as I crouch low, body coiled and trembling. The dragon doesn’t want to be calmed. He wants to claim, to possess, to wrap her in fire and never let go. I dig my claws into the earth to keep from lunging. I'm not safe. Not yet. And gods, I don’t know if I ever will be again.
She doesn’t run. She steps closer—and every inch she moves toward me tightens the vise of fear in my chest. Not for myself. For her. She doesn’t know how close I am to snapping, how razor-thin the line is between restraint and ruin.
My claws are buried in the earth not to hold my ground, but to hold myself back. My fire roils beneath my skin, hunger and possession clawing to the surface. She should run. She should. But she doesn’t. And it terrifies me in ways nothing else ever has.
"Dax," she says—just my name.
Her voice cuts through the fire like a stream of water—cool, clear, and impossibly steady. It doesn’t coddle or soothe, but it centers me. Not soft, but strong. Certain. It grabs hold of the fraying edge of my mind and tugs, reeling me back from the cliff I didn’t realize I was about to leap from.
She reaches out, slowly, like approaching a wounded animal. My rage resists—snaps and coils tighter, snarling just beneath the surface. But then her scent hits me again—warm citrus over smoke, threaded with worry and stubborn hope. It settles over me like a balm, easing the worst of the fury. And her eyes... gods, her eyes. Steady, unafraid. They don’t flinch, don’t accuse, just see me. The beast. The man. All of it. And somehow, they accept it. Her presence doesn’t douse the fire inside me—it tempers it. My fire dims, banked but not gone. Controlled. Because of her.
I shift.
Fire engulfs me again, curling tight as it draws the dragon back into the cage of flesh and bone. The heat peels away my scales, reforging skin and sinew—but it’s not seamless. Not this time. My shoulder flares as the wound Malek gave me refuses to fully heal, raw and exposed. The magic cannot completely close the tear as skin bubbles and sizzles around it. I stagger, the pain lancing through me as the last embers fade, leaving behind blood, breath, and too much fire still coiled inside.
Naked, blood streaking down my arm and dripping from the still-sizzling wound at my shoulder, I stagger forward. The air bites at the raw, open flesh, each step sending white-hot pain lancing through my nerves. My vision blurs for a second, heat warping my senses—but then she's there. Ember. She catches me without hesitation, her arms slipping around my waist like she’s done it a hundred times. I feel her warmth against my bare, scorched skin, grounding me in a way no magic ever could.
"I passed a cave," she says. "Come on."
She helps me into the clothing I keep in the SUV. My body aches with every movement, the heat from my wounds soaking into the seat. Neither of us says a word—the silence is thick, humming with everything unspoken between us. The tires crunch over loose gravel and dry pine needles as she guides the vehicle through narrow, winding paths only someone with insider knowledge would even think to take.
The trees press close, shadows deepening as twilight slips into night. Finally, we reach it—the hollowed stone that once served as a ranger outpost. Half-buried in the side of a hill and overgrown with moss and memory, it sits like a forgotten relic of a world that no longer knows what lives in its shadows.
Inside, it’s dark, quiet, warm. Safe—at least on the surface. The walls breathe with the heat of lingering fire magic and the faint scent of charred stone. Using the first aid kit from the SUV,she pushes my shirt out of the way and tends to my wound with silent hands, her touch gentle yet firm, lingering longer than it needs to. Her fingers tremble, just once—as if realizing she's touching a literal dragon and not a walking cautionary tale.
"Great, patching up fire-breathing alpha males wasn’t in the job description," she mutters under her breath, when they brush the blistered edge of my injury where the skin still sizzles faintly with residual heat.
I grunt, more out of reflex than pain, and she hesitates, eyes flicking up to mine. But she doesn’t pull away. There’s fear in her—yes—but there’s more than that too. Curiosity. Courage. Connection. She steadies her breath and keeps going. And I let her. Neither do I pull back. Because in that moment, her touch is the only thing keeping the fire in me from reigniting.
When her hand drifts up to my jaw, I catch it gently, threading my fingers through hers and guiding it to my chest—right over the place where the fire lives, where my heart pounds too fast beneath fevered skin. I can feel her pulse—fast, uncertain, echoing the chaos in my own body—but she doesn’t look away. Her gaze locks with mine, bold and searching, as if she’s trying to see past the damage, past the dragon, into the man I still hope I am.
"You came for me," she whispers.
"Always."
She leans in, each movement measured and magnetic, her breath warm against my lips like the first flicker of flame. Her amber eyes search mine—questioning, hungry, impossibly steady—and I taste salt and smoke on that quiet breath. For a heartbeat, time hangs suspended, and I could wrench myself back, remind her of the dangers we court. But I don’t. I can’t. Her nearness stirs something primal in my chest—a smoldering fuse that demands to be lit.
When our mouths collide, it’s like wildfire unleashed. The kiss is fierce and inevitable, a conflagration of heat and longing that threads through every nerve. She moans—a low vibration that shudders against my lips and races down my spine. Her hands trail from my shoulders, fingertips digging in, curious and raw, as if mapping the territory of my skin. I respond in kind, my palms pressing into the curve of her hips with possessive intent, drawing her close until only our heat remains.
The firelight dances across her flushed flesh, gilding each contour in molten gold. Shadows flicker over her collarbone as I trail kisses, tasting the tang of sweat and the aftertaste of smoke. She arches beneath me, a silent invitation that sparks a growl deep from within me. My tongue traces her jaw, lingers at the hollow of her throat, and every feather-soft brush sets her pulse racing. Her nails rake down my back, pulling me closer—even as they draw strength from me.
Clothes become kindling in our frenzy—torn, yanked, ripped away without care. Silk hisses as it slides from her shoulders. Leather creaks and falls, forgotten. Fabric pools at our feet like discarded lies, each piece a surrender. And in their place, a realization sears through me—this isn’t just lust. This is obliteration. Of barriers. Of hesitation. Of anything that once kept us apart. The destruction of fabric feels like a ritual, a shedding of the lives we wore before this moment, now stripped to nothing but fire and truth. The surrounding walls—emotional, physical, ancient—shatter beneath the force of us.
We’re bare now. Not just in skin, but in soul. Exposed. Untamed. Her gaze finds mine in the firelight, and something inside me growls awake.
Our mouths crash—no longer a kiss, but a storm. Wet, urgent, gasping. Her tongue meets mine with fierce challenge, and I answer with equal hunger. Every moan is a demand. Every gasp, a promise. She presses into me, slick heat and defiantcurves, her nails carving marks down my back that will heal too quickly.
She grabs my hair and yanks, forcing my head back. Her voice is a whisper against my throat, hot and commanding. “Don’t hold back.”
A thrill tears through me—sharp, electric. She’s not submitting. She’s staking her claim. And damn if that doesn’t make me harder.
I won’t. I can’t.
