Chapter 20
Luke
Gray light filters through frost-rimed windows. Weak. Uncertain. The kind of dawn that promises nothing but more cold.
I sit with my back against the wall by the dying fire, handgun resting on my thigh, eyes on the door. Haven’t moved from this position in hours. I can’t make myself leave this spot despite the stiffness settling into my shoulders, the ache in my ribs from the beating I took from the Syndicate.
Less likely to stare at the woman sleeping across the room and remember exactly how she felt under my hands.
Ember shifts on the cot, and my attention snaps to her. The blanket’s slipped down to her waist. She’s still wearing the flannel shirt, too big on her frame, gaping open at the collar to expose the hollow of her throat. The place I had my mouth six hours ago.
I force my eyes back to the door. Run through every possible point of attack. Catalog exit routes I’ve already memorized twice.
Anything except thinking about the taste of her skin. The sound she made when I touched her. The trust in her eyes right before I shattered it.
Three hundred years of discipline. Three days with her and it’s all shot to hell.
I told myself it was protection. Professionalism. The right thing. That stopping before we went too far was what any decent man would do, what she deserved from someone charged with keeping her alive.
But watching her pull away—seeing the pain I put in her eyes—that didn’t feel right at all.
My thoughts spiral through the night before on an endless loop.
The feel of her skin—warm and impossibly soft despite everything we’d been through.
The way she responded to my touch, no hesitation, no fear.
Just want and trust and an honesty that cracked something open in my chest I’d kept locked down for decades.
The way she straddled my lap. The heat of her through thin fabric. Her fingers gripping my shoulders while I traced the curve of her ribs, the underside of her breast, every sound she made burning into my memory.
Then the moment I stopped. Pulled away when every instinct screamed to keep going. To claim what she was offering and damn the consequences.
The confusion and hurt that flooded her face. The bitterness in her voice when she accused me of treating her like a child.
She’s not wrong.
I run through justifications for the hundredth time, trying to make them stick.
She’s twenty-one. Vanya’s daughter. Under my protection.
Too young to know what she’s choosing. Too inexperienced to understand what she’s asking for.
The adrenaline, the life-or-death situation—it’s not real, it’s just survival instinct manifesting as something else.
But none of this holds weight against the memory of her voice: “I’m not a child. Stop treating me like one.”
The real problem sits heavier in my gut. I’ve spent too long keeping everyone at bay. Refusing connection because loss is easier when you don’t care. Using “protection” as an excuse for cowardice.
Mara. The thought surfaces. Our partnership was reluctant, but I grew to respect her in those few, chaotic weeks. She was a good woman, in her own eccentric way. And I failed her when it mattered.
I didn’t fail her. I made a logical choice.
Which would have been easier if I’d stuck to my old system. Clean professional relationships only. Mission parameters. Extraction protocols. No complications.
Now Ember Arrowvane has walked into my life with her hybrid powers and her stubborn courage. Sweet. Naive. And so damned beautiful.
Across the room, she stirs again. Her hair falls across her face in pale waves.
The morning light catches in it, makes her look younger and older at the same time.
Vulnerable. Lovely in a way that has nothing to do with makeup or styling and everything to do with the raw honesty she can’t seem to hide.
I want to go to her. Cross this room and finish what we started. Show her with my hands and mouth exactly how much I meant every touch last night.
Instead, I stay where I am. Hand on my weapon. Wall at my back. Safe distance maintained.
The comm unit on the table chirps. A quiet alert. Encrypted signal incoming.
I’m across the room in three steps, grateful for the interruption. For something to focus on besides the memory of her curves under my palms. The display shows Aurora Collective scramble codes, message decrypting in real-time.
From Viktor Parlance: “Kenan—confirmation received. Extraction team dispatched. ETA your position: Twenty-four hours. Maintain low profile. Syndicate activity increasing in region. Advise status and injuries. —VP”
Relief washes through me. Twenty-four hours and we’re out of this. Back to Seattle, proper medical attention, safety behind Aurora’s security protocols.
Back to the real world, where I’m a Craven elder, she’s an untouchable Arrowvane, and this thing between us can go back to being nothing.
Except it’s already something. Has been since the moment I pulled her from that flaming helicopter. Maybe before that.
I draft a response, fingers moving over the keypad on muscle memory: “Both alive. Minor injuries. Advise immediate protocol.”
Hit send. Wait.
A second message arrives within five minutes. This one from Caleb Craven: “Luke—Intel suggests Syndicate mobilizing toward the tomb site. Another possible attempt to access Sleeping King’s power. Do NOT engage. Extraction only. Craven out.”
My back stiffens. Muscles in my shoulders lock up.
Syndicate at the tomb. Where the ancient power has woken. Where something helped us escape through impossible channels. Where the Sleeping King’s essence still throbs through the mountain like a second heartbeat.
They’re going after the source.
I start pacing. Quiet steps that don’t mask my agitation.
If the Syndicate taps the Sleeping King’s power, the implications ripple out beyond one mission.
Beyond one hybrid they’re hunting. They could control dragon bloodlines through connection to the ancient king’s essence.
Identify every hybrid in existence through magical resonance.
Execute purge protocols across the entire supernatural world.
And while they plan it, I’ll be sitting here, waiting for help to arrive.
I’m not sure I can stand a day in this lodge with Ember after what happened. After what almost happened. Twenty-four hours of wanting what I can’t have. What I shouldn’t take. What she’s already offered, and I was too much of a coward to accept.
Soft sound behind me. Fabric rustling. Movement.
I turn. Ember’s sitting up on the cot, blanket wrapped around her shoulders, hair mussed from sleep. The flannel shirt hangs off one shoulder, exposing the curve where her neck meets her collarbone. Skin I can still taste if I let myself remember.
I don’t let myself remember.
Those eyes—sharp even exhausted—find mine across the room. The tension from last night sits heavy. Unspoken. Unresolved. The kind of weight that doesn’t lift just because morning came.
“Did you rest?” Her voice is hoarse with sleep. Lower than usual. It does things to me I have no business feeling.
“No.”
“You should have woken me for watch.” She stands, and the blanket falls away. Just the shirt now, hanging to mid-thigh, bare legs underneath. She’s kicked off the oversized pants at some point. Probably uncomfortable.
I force my eyes up. Keep them on her face. “You needed rest.”
Another silence. This one sharper. She moves to the fireplace, and I track the movement despite myself. The way she walks… even exhausted, even hurt, there’s an effortless grace to it. Dragon heritage showing through. And witch.
She keeps herself apart. Learned her lesson about getting too close. The blanket trails behind her, and I notice the scrapes on her calves from crawling through rock.
Evidence of everything we survived.
“Any word from Aurora?” she asks.
I gesture at the comm device, keeping my voice level. Professional.
“Extraction in twenty-four hours. Viktor wants us to sit tight.”
She processes this. Face giving nothing away except for a slight tightening around her eyes.
“Twenty-four hours. And then what?”
“Then we go home. Debrief. Figure out next steps.”
“But what about the Syndicate’s plans? We can’t waste time by going back home. They could be up to something as we speak.”
“It’s a chance we have to take,” I tell her.
“But we could be useful if—”
“We will let them handle it, Ember. We’re no match for Syndicate forces. We’ll go back to Aurora headquarters and figure it out from there.”
She turns to face me fully. The morning light—the little there is of it—casts shadows across her features. Makes her eyes darker. Highlights the bruise forming on her cheekbone from when they took us down yesterday.
I want to touch it. Check for damage. Make sure she’s really okay despite what the rational part of my brain already knows.
I don’t move.
“Just like that?” Her voice carries an edge now. “And what about us? We pretend last night didn’t happen and go back to being operative and… what? Asset?”
The bitterness cuts deeper than it should.
“Last night shouldn’t have happened.” I keep my tone level.
She flinches. Subtle, but I see it. The hurt that flashes across her face before she can hide it.
“Because you regret it.”
“Because you deserve better than—”
“If you say ‘better than you’ one more time, I’m walking out that door and taking my chances with the Syndicate.”
I force myself to meet her eyes. To see the anger and pain and stubborn determination there.
“You’re twenty-one, Ember. I’m three hundred years old. You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
She steps closer. Not touching, but close enough that I can feel the heat coming off her. Can smell smoke and lavender and something undefinable that’s been driving me insane for three days.
“I know exactly what I’m asking for. Someone who sees me as I am, not what everyone else wants me to be.”