He smiles—crooked. That always means something’s coming. “This one’s not wrapped. But it’s been burning a hole in me all night.”
A flick of his chin toward the firepit is all the hint I get before he steps away, disappearing into the shadows beyond the lanterns. I sit up, confused—until I notice the others shifting, glancing at each other, some already turning toward the beach.
“Come on,” Violet whispers, pulling me to my feet. “You’re gonna want the front-row view.”
The hush that settles over the gathering differs from earlier. Not somber, not solemn—but something expectant. Alive.
Then I see him.
He steps into the firelight barefoot. His chest is bare, his tattoos catching and holding the light. The fire doesn’t just illuminate him—it crowns him. And for a moment, my breath leaves me altogether.
He’s alone this time.
The first time I saw him do this dance, it was with his cousins. A breathtaking storm of sound and flame. But this time, it’s just him.
This is for me.
The drums begin low. A pulse. A heartbeat. Then the flames leap to life.
The fire knife blazes in his hand, and he spins it once, twice—then launches it into the air, catching it with effortless precision. Every movement is deliberate, every arc of fire a sentence in a language I’m still learning but feel down to my bones.
His body moves like he’s done this a thousand times. His arms slice the air, his feet pound the earth. The fire kisses the sand and climbs the sky again.
The drumbeat rises, and so does the heat. The sweat slicks his skin, the glow of the flames gilding his back and shoulders. And even through the intensity, even as sparks spin past him and smoke coils in the air—he finds me.
His eyes lock on mine, and I swear I stop breathing. Because this isn’t just performance. This is an offering. Legacy. Devotion.
Each movement says something he hasn’t put into words. Each toss of the blade, each crackle of flame, is him telling me this is who I am, and I am yours.
He throws the blade one last time, higher than before. It arcs, spinning through the sky—and when it falls, he catches it clean, sinking into a low stance as the drums stop all at once.
Silence.
The cheers erupt around me, but I’m frozen. My hands pressed to my chest. My throat tight with an awe I can’t name.
He walks toward me, still breathing hard, eyes blazing, and I meet him halfway.
“I love you,” I whisper, rising onto my toes to kiss him. “And that was so damn hot.”
The fire still crackles behind us. And somewhere, deep in my chest, something new and ancient settles into place.
He didn’t just give me a performance. He gave me his past. His pride. His fire.
And now it’s mine, too.
Chapter 27
Magnolia Sebring
The sleek white jet waits for us on the tarmac. “Seriously? You won’t tell me?”
Alex looks at me like he’s keeping the world’s best secret locked behind that smug, gorgeous smirk. “Not yet.”
He’s wearing gray joggers and a black long-sleeve tee, sleeves pushed up, sunglasses tucked in the neck—annoyingly casual for someone who’s whisking me onto a private chartered plane without giving me a single clue about where we’re going.
He leans in, his voice brushing against my ear. “The only thing I’m telling you is that we’re both joining the mile-high club on this flight.”
My stomach flutters. “You should come with a warning label.”
