Chapter 7
Thorne
After The Rite of Silken Flame
The moment she takes my hand, the fire inside me answers.
Not with flame—gods help me—but with pressure.
With heat rolling through my veins like a tide I have spent centuries mastering and tonight am perilously close to losing.
I feel it in my shoulders first.
In the flex of my hands.
In the way my wings itch beneath my skin, aching to unfurl, to claim space, to claim her.
Restraint has never been my strongest virtue.
Delia moves like she belongs here—bare feet whispering over stone warmed by the Great Flame, chin lifted despite the tremor I can sense in her pulse.
She does not cower. She does not hesitate.
She walks beside me as if I have not just undone her life.
As if she trusts me not to burn her alive.
That trust is a blade to the ribs.
I curl my hands into fists behind my back, forcing my power down, down, down.
If I touch her now without care, without intention, I will scorch us both—and this moment deserves more than ruin.
Stop, I want to tell her, not because I want her to stop—but because I should do something.
I don’t.
Her dark eyes search my face, and something in my chest fractures.
Her lips part. I feel the bond tighten, humming low and dangerous between us.
I don’t want this to be only pretending.
But I don’t know how to say that.
All I know is this woman hits me like oxygen on flame.
I concentrate on the walk before I lose myself completely in this fruitless train of thought.
The bedchamber doors loom ahead—obsidian veined with molten gold, humming faintly with old magic.
This room has seen conquest. Rage. Victory.
But never this.
Never the risk of wanting something I cannot afford to lose.
I pause at the threshold, breathing hard, grounding myself in the weight of my duty—The Ember Vein, my people, the crown buried beneath the hearth.
This is why I brought her here.
This is what I must remember.
But when I look back at her—standing in white, firelight haloing her like a promise—I know the truth I have been denying since the moment she ran into the flames on Earth.
This is no transaction.
This is no convenient bond.
This is the most dangerous thing I have ever faced.
And still—I open the door and step aside, letting her pass first.
Because maybe even fire must learn to yield.