Chapter 2
Two
Ember’s logo is etched in copper above a sleek, black facade—a wand engulfed in flame, twisting upward like a question mark made of fire.
The wand is subtle, almost hidden unless you know what you’re looking for.
Which feels like a metaphor. For what, I don’t know yet.
But it feels important and ominous in a cursed-object kind of way.
I weave through the crowd, people pressed together in clusters, dancing, drinking. Music pulses low. The lighting is soft but strategic, red glows from the shadowed corners like flames, and a gold wash fills the space, making everyone look a little glossier, a little more like a dream.
I’m trying to hold myself together. Trying to channel Dating App Amanda—the mysterious, effortlessly flirty version of me who sends eggplant and water emojis and strategically plans double texts.
But in reality, I’m a vibrating mess in strappy stilettos and a dress that seemed like a brilliant idea when I was going to a fundraiser and not moments away from meeting the man who has an express pass to my nervous system.
Declan casually leans against the back bar—a gleaming stretch of black stone veined with copper that glints under the dim glow of low-hanging sconces. Behind him, a wall of backlit liquor bottles rises like an altar. He holds a crystal tumbler in one hand, the other tucked lazily into his pocket.
Holy shit. He’s real.
I mean, I knew that. But seeing him in the flesh, watching his body take up space like this… I guess I didn’t fully believe someone like that was actually DMing someone like me.
He doesn’t move when he sees me. Doesn’t wave. Doesn’t smile. He just watches.
I draw in a breath. It catches halfway.
His profile said six foot three, but seeing him now, he’s somehow…
bigger. Taller than expected. Broader too.
Dressed in a sleek black suit, every line tailored to make the most of his impossibly muscular build.
And his stillness—that coiled, tightly reined-in quiet—is magnetic in a way that feels like a challenge. A dare cloaked in wool and shadow.
His molten gaze glides over me like he’s already unwrapped me and is deciding which part he wants to taste first. He lifts the tumbler to his lips and takes a long pull, his throat working, his jaw flexing ever so slightly.
Without breaking eye contact, he drags his thumb across his full bottom lip.
All I can think about is how I want that thumb dragging across me. My lips, my throat, chest, stomach, lower.
My nipples harden. My ovaries sigh. And my vagina lights up like a chakra that’s just been unblocked.
This whole meeting-in-person thing is going to be a lot more complicated than I thought.
I bite the inside of my cheek. Flirting through a screen I have down. But being near this man—breathing the same air, watching his mouth move, seeing the way he looks at me like I’m the next thing on his to-do list—is something else entirely.
All at once, I’m devastatingly aware of every inch of my body. Every beat of my heart. Every shallow breath.
I take one step. Then another.
My walk is too stiff. Or maybe too bouncy. Is there such a thing as seductive but grounded? Like a ballet dancer who moonlights as a dominatrix?
I try to picture what I must look like, which of course only makes it worse.
Tucking my chin, I adjust my shoulders. Then I untuck my chin. I have no idea what my arms are doing. Why do I have so many limbs?
My ankle wobbles.
Oh no. No no no.
This isn’t going to be a cute little trip. Not a flirty stumble. Not an oopsie, tee-hee kind of moment. This is a flat on my face sort of blunder. A full rom-com pratfall.
If I could just make it to the bar…touch something solid…
No such luck. My ankle gives out, and I death grip my purse as I pitch forward.
Directly into Declan Thorne’s chest.
Colliding with him is like hitting a wall of heat and muscle that somehow smells expensive—earth and spice layered over woodsmoke.
One solid arm wraps around me, catching me hard against his chest before I can slide down his torso like a cartoon character and end up on the floor.
His suit jacket is smooth velvet, but there’s no missing the broad, unyielding muscle beneath.
My hands press against him, fingers splaying over firm pecs that flex as he moves.
My nose brushes the hollow of his throat.
The scent there—skin and warmth and something that might be clove—hits so good and deep it makes me sigh.
Would it be weird to live off this smell and one green juice a day? Because honestly, I’d thrive.
A low sound rumbles in his chest as he clears his throat, and my whole body jolts like I’ve just remembered how to function.
Looking up takes effort. My face burns.
The soft curve of his mouth twitches. That little smile is slow, smug, and completely unfair.
“You always make an entrance like this?” he asks, voice low and bone-meltingly deep.
And holy hell.
That voice.
It’s richer than I imagined. A slow scrape of gravel against my bare arms.
“Apparently only when I’m trying to seduce someone,” spills out of my mouth before I can stop it.
Kill me. Kill me now.
His breath flutters my lashes as he leans in, close enough to feel the heat of it against my cheeks. “Then I’d say it’s working.”
Something tightens low in my belly—want or warning, I can’t tell—and for a second, the noise of the club fades to a low, echoing hum. Just me. Him. And the acute awareness that this man is not going to play fair.
I clear my throat and shuffle ungracefully backward while smoothing my dress and hooking my purse over my arm.
Hopefully getting some distance will erase the fact that I just inhaled him like a human incense stick.
My hand flies to my hair, fingers raking through my shoulder-length cut that I’m praying doesn’t resemble a poodle caught in a windstorm.
Declan reaches out with the languid grace of a man who’s never had to rush for anything and drags his fingers up my arm, leaving a trail of sparks along my bare skin. Each second stretches like taffy as he slowly hooks the strap of my dress back up over my shoulder
Breath locked in my throat, I focus on not leaning in.
But my body betrays me, shoulder shifting a fraction of an inch into his palm before I can stop it.
“There,” he murmurs, voice a slow pour of honey. His gaze locks onto mine, dark and steady. “Perfect.”
Perfect.
The word smolders in my chest. My skin buzzes where he touched me. My brain scrambles to reboot. And beneath the heat and the want and my resting level of anxiety, a single, unnerving truth rises like a warning bell:
I am in so much trouble.