She finally turns, meeting my eyes with that steady gaze that refuses to break or bend regardless of what I throw at her. The setting sun catches in her hair, turning ordinary autumn brown into shades of copper and gold, and for a dangerous moment, I forget she’s human, mortal, utterly breakable if I lose control again.
“Talk about what?” Suspicion edges into her tone, wariness born from a month of captivity teaching her that nothing in this place comes without strings attached. “More threats about what happens if I don’t cooperate? Reminders that you could kill me whenever you decide I’m more trouble than I’m worth?”
“About you.” I close the door behind me and lean against it, putting a physical barrier between us and whatever impulse might drive me to get closer than safe. “Your life before the crash. What you were searching for out here in territory thatclearlywarns people to stay away.”
Her eyebrows rise fractionally, surprise flickering across features too expressive to hide what she’s thinking. “Youactuallywant to know aboutme?The photographer who’s apparently just human enough to be disposable, but interesting enough to keep alive?”
The bitterness in her voice cuts deeper than it should, reminding me that every decision I’ve made since finding her has reinforced the reality that her life holds value only in relation to what she can do for us.Useful.That’s what I called her when explaining to the brothers why she wasn’t in the ground already.
But watching the flame surge brighter every time she’s near suggests she’s significantly more than just‘useful.’
“I want to understand what brought you here.” I keep my voice neutral, carefully controlled, the same tone I use during club business when emotions threaten to compromise strategic thinking. “Photographers don’t usually venture this deep into the wilderness in November without good reason. So… what was yours?”
She studies me for a long moment, calculation running behind eyes that see too much, before turning back to the window with a sigh that carries the weight of too many complicated truths. “My mother.” The simple answer opens doors I wasn’t expecting, vulnerability bleeding through the defenses she’s built around herself since the chains came off. “We don’t speak very often.” Her fingers trace patterns on the windowsill, unconscious movements that betray the emotional weight of what she’s sharing. “She thinks I’m wasting my life chasing photographs through dangerous places instead of moving into the family business that’ll slowly kill my soul. I think she’s so focused on me following in her footsteps that she forgot how toactuallylive, and thatIneed to live too.”
“So, you came out here to prove something.” Not a question. I recognize rebellion when I see it, the desperate need to carve your own path even when everyone tells you it leads nowhere good.
“I came out here because the Appalachians are one of the last truly wild places left in this country.” Her voice gains strength as she talks about her work, passion replacing exhaustion inthe set of her shoulders. “Untouched wilderness where nature still operates by its own rules instead of human convenience. I wanted to document that. Capture the beauty and danger in images that remind peoplewhythese places matter,whywe should protect them instead of paving them over for strip malls and subdivisions.” She pauses, something shifting in her expression before she continues more quietly, “AndmaybeI wanted to prove to myself that I could survive alone. That I didn’tneedanyone’s approval or protection to do what I love… even if it scares the hell out of people who think safety in doing things the same way over and over again is the only thing worth pursuing.”
There she is,my Firecracker.
The words settle between us, honest and raw, painting a picture of someone who values freedom over security, who’d rather risk death than live confined by other people’s fears. Someone who reminds me uncomfortably of the dragon I used to be before the curse stripped away the choice between control and destruction.
“Your mother was right to be anxious.” The observation comes out harsher than intended, edges sharpened by centuries of watching reckless decisions lead to brutal consequences. “You walked into territory controlled by beings that could tear you apart without effort. Touched magic you didn’t understand. Got yourself trapped in the middle of a criminal empire that should have killed you the moment we found you.”
“And yet… here I am.” She mocks, turning back to face me, defiance sparking in eyes that refuse to accept blame for circumstances beyond her control. “Still breathing. Still fighting. Still refusing to break, no matter how many monsters you send to feed on my fear or how many times you freeze me against walls.”
The reference to yesterday’s loss of control makes my jaw tighten, ice threatening to spread from my hands before I force it back down through sheer willpower.
She’s goading me.
Deliberately.
Testing to see if I’ll lose my temper again.
If the chemistry crackling between us will ignite into violence or something else entirely.
“You should have broken.” The admission escapes, genuine confusion bleeding through carefully maintained neutrality. “A week of isolation. A month of captivity. Wreck feeding on your terror. Iron burning your skin while cold seeped into your bones. Most humans would be begging for death after three days of that treatment, but you sat there in chains and waited with patience I’ve never seen in your species.”
“Maybe I’m not most humans.” Her chin lifts in challenge, stubborn pride refusing to bow even now. “Or maybe I’m just too angry to giveyouthe satisfaction of seeingmebeg.”
A sound escapes my throat that might be a laugh if I remembered how those worked, dark amusement threading through the frustration of trying to understand what she is, why she affects me this way, and why the flame burns brighter when she’s near. “Or maybe you’re not entirely human?”
She waggles her brows, then shakes her head like that is the stupidest thing I have ever said to her. “Tell me about the villages.” She deflects, her request catches me off guard, the shift in conversation happening so smoothly I almost miss the trap she’s laid. “The ones you burned. The rage that consumed you. I want to understand what you were before the curse made you this.” She waves her hands up and down toward me.
Everything in me recoils from the idea of sharing that darkness with her, of letting her see the monster beneath the man who currently tries to maintain some semblance of controlover instincts that want nothing except destruction and heat. But her eyes hold mine with steady expectation that suggests she won’t accept deflection or half-truths. That if I want honesty from her, I need to offer the same in return.
“I was a warlord.” The words taste like ash and old blood, memories stirring that I’ve spent centuries trying to bury beneath ice and distance. “Dragons live for power, territory, the instinct to dominate everything we touch is woven into our DNA deeper than reason or restraint. So, I built an empire across what would become Eastern Europe, claimed lands through fire and fear, burned anyone who challenged my authority until entire regions bowed rather than risk my wrath.”
I move away from the door, pacing the small space like the caged beast I’ve become, unable to stay still while these truths claw their way out. “Villages burned because I couldn’t contain the rage that came with my power. Innocents died because I saw threats everywhere and responded with overwhelming force designed to eliminate problems before they could grow. My fire didn’t stop when it should have, it didn’t distinguish between enemy and civilian, it didn’t care that the screams echoing through burning streets came from people who’d done nothing except exist in territory I claimed as mine.”
The memories flood back with brutal clarity. Flames consuming thatch roofs, children screaming, the acrid smell of burning flesh mixing with smoke thick enough to blot out the sun. And through it all, the absolute certainty that I was justified, that power gave me the right to do whatever was necessary to maintain control.
“The witch came after I burned the fortieth village in a single season.” My voice drops to something between confession and condemnation, the weight of those deaths pressing down even centuries later. “She didn’t ask questions. Didn’t offer chances to explain or justify. Just looked at the destruction I’d caused andpronounced judgment with the kind of absolute authority that makes even dragons pause.”
I stop pacing, meeting Roxy’s eyes across the small room, expecting to find horror or disgust or the moral condemnation humans usually offer when confronted with supernatural violence. Instead, I find something infinitely more dangerous.
Understanding.