Chapter 18
Ember
The concrete wall digs into my spine. I’ve stopped counting hours. Stopped tracking the fluorescent lights that buzz overhead, white and relentless. Stopped trying to reach for the dragon that won’t answer.
The cuffs are tight around my wrists. I’ve tested them until my skin tore, until blood dried in dark lines across my palms. Nothing changes. The magic stays buried beneath layers of tech I can’t break. Magic I can’t access anyway.
And Luke is dead.
The thought circles back no matter how hard I try to push it away. They said dawn. They said execution. They said he served his purpose… and by now, he’s gone.
My fault.
If I’d been stronger in those caves. If I’d controlled my power instead of letting it explode wild and desperate. If I’d done anything differently—
He’d still be alive.
The door opens without warning.
Two guards fill the frame, faces blank, movements efficient. I recognize the type. Syndicate through and through. The kind who follow orders without question because questioning gets you killed.
“On your feet.” The first one’s voice carries no emotion. “Transport’s ready.”
I force myself to stand. My legs shake, exhaustion and fear and something that feels like resignation. But I won’t give them the satisfaction of seeing me break.
Not yet.
Not ever, if I can help it.
The second guard produces a black hood. Heavy fabric that reeks of fear and desperate people who wore it before me.
They pull it over my head before I can react. Hard hands. No care for the torn skin at my wrists or the bruises blooming across my ribs. Just efficiency.
Darkness swallows everything.
For a moment, panic surges, but I fight it down.
Hands grip my shoulders. Shove me forward. I stumble, catch myself, force my body to move even though every instinct screams to fight.
Where would I run? My magic’s suppressed. My dragon’s silent. Luke’s dead and Mara’s dead and I’m alone in a facility designed to hold people like me.
I’m so fucking screwed.
We walk through corridors I can’t see. I count turns as I stumble blindly between the guards; left, straight, right, straight again. Try to build a map in my head even though it won’t matter. Even though I’m being transported to Syndicate headquarters, where the Ivory League waits.
Where being hybrid means certain death.
Cold air hits when we exit the building. Mountain wind that cuts through my torn jacket and filthy clothes. I gasp at the shock of it, lungs filling with forest air and diesel fumes. We must be out in some sort of loading area.
They shove me into a vehicle. Metal floor hard under my knees. The smell of oil and something chemical. Engine grease, maybe.
Hands force me onto a bench. Restraints lock around my wrists with mechanical clicks. More of that dull hum that speaks of energy suppression. Dragon-forged steel.
Secured. Contained. Property being transferred.
Two guards settle into the back with me. I hear their breathing through the hood. Controlled, professional. The creak of tactical gear as they shift position.
A third voice from up front. Muffled through what must be a partition separating the cab from the cargo area.
“Ready back there?”
“Affirmative.” One of my guards.
The engine starts. A diesel rumble that vibrates through the metal floor and into my bones.
We lurch into motion. If I’d eaten anything within the last twenty-four hours, my stomach would probably lurch, too. As it is, my mouth goes dry, nausea thickening my throat.
Through the hood’s fabric, I track sounds. Sensations. The crunch of gravel under tires. The tilt as we descend; mountain road, switchbacks carved into ancient rock. The sway around curves that presses me against the restraints.
Each turn takes me farther from the facility. From any chance of rescue. From the place where Luke died because I couldn’t save him.
Closer to headquarters. To the people who want my kind extinct.
Time stretches wrong under the hood. Minutes blur together. Could be ten. Could be thirty. Just the engine’s growl and the occasional crackle of radio static from up front.
The guards don’t speak. Professional silence that’s somehow worse than threats would be.
My thoughts drift despite my efforts to stay present. Memories flood back. Luke’s hand catching mine during the crash. His voice steady in the darkness—I’ve got you. The way he looked at me in that cave when I thought we’d die together.
All gone now.
They’ll dissect me. Study what makes a hybrid burn with dragonfire and witch flame. Parade my execution as proof that their ideology is right.
And he won’t even know it happened.
The thought should terrify me. Instead, I just feel empty.
Because he’s dead.
I bite back a tiny sob, still determined not to show the bastards any sign of weakness.
Screw them.
I won’t give them the satisfaction of seeing me broken.
Not that they’d care.
Fucking minions.
The truck keeps moving, branches scraping along the sides occasionally. The road must be narrow.
Maybe twenty minutes into the drive, something shifts.
The guards grow restless. One mutters into his comm; low voice, words I can’t quite catch through the fabric and rumble of the engine. His voice sharpens.
“Driver, confirm route.”
Static.
“Driver, respond.” Strident now.
More static. Then a voice, distorted through the partition: “Road construction. Taking alternate route.”
Guard One: “That wasn’t in the brief.”
I feel Guard Two shift beside me. The distinct click of a safety disengaging.
The vehicle slows.
My pulse kicks despite the resignation. Despite knowing there’s nowhere to run, even if something’s wrong.
We pull off the road; I feel the transition. Gravel to rough ground. The suspension protests as we navigate what must be an unpaved track.
Then the engine cuts.
Silence crashes in. So sudden it rings in my ears.
Guard One: “What the hell is—?”
The partition window scrapes open.
Gunshots. Two quick cracks that punch through the confined space.
I flinch. Pull against restraints that don’t budge. Terror floods through me.
The guards slump. I hear bodies hit metal with wet, heavy sounds.
Dead. Both dead in seconds.
No… What?
Footsteps approach from the front. Boots on metal. Purposeful. Coming for me.
This is it. Ambush. The Circle of Fire taking their shot before the Syndicate can claim me? Or some other faction that wants hybrid blood for their own purposes?
Hands grip the hood. Yank it off roughly.
Cold air and sudden light blind me. I blink, vision clearing in stages.
A man crouches in front of me. Blood at his temple. Bruises darkening his jaw. Eyes I know better than my own.
Luke!
My brain refuses to process it. He’s supposed to be dead. They said dawn. They said execution.
But he’s here. Real. Solid. Alive.
For several seconds, I’m frozen. Can’t do anything except stare.
Then reality slams through the shock.
“You’re alive.” My voice breaks.
He’s already working my restraints. Fingers quick and sure despite the blood crusting his knuckles.
“Not for long if we don’t move.”
The cuffs release with dual hisses. My wrists are raw, bleeding where metal bit deep. The sudden freedom makes me dizzy.
He pulls me upright. Strong hands that steady me when my legs threaten to fold.
“Can you walk?”
I don’t answer. Can’t form words.
Instead, I throw myself at him.
My hands fist in his stolen uniform. My face presses against his chest, where I can feel his heartbeat, solid and real.
Luke goes rigid for half a second.
Then his arms come around me. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
I pull back just enough to look up at him. Blood on his cheek. Exhaustion carved into his features. The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
The distance between us disappears as I wrap an arm around his neck and pull his face down to mine.
Our lips collide; hard, desperate, no finesse. Just raw need and relief crashing together. I taste copper from the cut on his lip, and I don’t care. I kiss him harder, deeper, pouring every ounce of terror and grief and desperate gratitude into it.
Luke freezes for one beat.
Then he kisses me back like he’s drowning and I’m air.
His hand cups my jaw, calloused fingers scraping gently against my skin even as his mouth claims mine with savage intensity. The other hand tangles in my hair, pulling me closer, angling my head so he can kiss me deeper. His breath comes ragged against my lips. Hot. Unsteady.
I open for him, and his tongue sweeps in, claiming, possessing.
The taste of him floods my senses: salt and smoke and a hint of dragonfire.
My fingers dig into his shoulders, into the stolen fabric, anchoring myself to this moment.
To the impossible reality that he’s here.
He’s alive. He’s kissing me like the world might end again any second.
The scrape of his stubble burns my chin, my cheek. I feel it everywhere our skin touches, and it grounds me. Makes this real. Makes him real.
My back hits the truck’s metal wall, and I gasp. He follows, pressing against me, one hand still buried in my hair while the other slides to my waist. His fingers find bare skin where my shirt’s torn, and the contact sends electricity racing up my spine.
I kiss him harder. Pour everything into it: the hours thinking he was dead, the fear, the guilt, the rage at almost losing him. His grip tightens in response, like he can feel it all, like he’s trying to absorb every ounce of pain and replace it with this.
With us.
The cold metal at my back. The heat of his body against mine. The desperate rhythm of our breathing… uneven, synchronized, alive.
His teeth catch my bottom lip, and I make a sound I’ve never made before. Something between a gasp and a moan that comes from somewhere deep and unguarded.
He groans in response—low, rough—and the sound reverberates through my chest.
Time stops. Or maybe it speeds up. I can’t tell anymore. Can only feel the slide of his mouth against mine, the way his fingers press into my flesh like he’s afraid I’ll disappear. The way every nerve in my body fires up at his touch.
When he finally pulls back, we’re both gasping. His forehead rests against mine. His eyes—those chocolate eyes I thought I’d never see again—are nearly black with want.
“That’s not fair,” he says gruffly.
“What isn’t?” I can barely get the words out.
“You. Kissing me like that when we have two minutes before this place is swarming with teams.” But his hand is still in my hair, fingers twisted in the strands. His other arm is locked around my waist, holding me against him like he might never let go.
“Then we move fast.” I don’t release my grip on his vest. Can’t. My hands shake where they’re fisted in the fabric.
Something crosses his face: want and frustration and something deeper that makes my chest ache. Then his expression shutters. He’s back to being the closed book I’ve come to recognize. But it doesn’t bother me anymore. Because now I know what lies beneath the surface. And it’s pure fire.
“They’ll realize what happened soon. Roadblocks. Pursuit teams. I rerouted us twenty minutes back, so they’ll be looking in the wrong direction. It’ll give us a few hours. A day, max. Still, we need distance.”
“Can’t we take the truck?” I glance around us.
He shakes his head. “Too easy to find.”
He helps me out of the transport. Steadies me when my legs wobble.
He gestures toward the treeline. Dense pine rising dark against the early morning sky.
“Hunting lodge. Two miles northeast. Off-grid. Defensible.”
“How did you—?” I start. “They said you were—”
“Later.” He cuts me off, but his hand finds mine. Squeezes once. “Right now, we run.”