Chapter 23
Ember
I lean against the rock outcrop, hastily pulling my shirt back over my head, fingers fumbling with the fabric.
My skin still feels flushed, the places where Luke touched me burning like gentle brands in the chilled air.
My dragon senses catch the scent of him lingering on my skin. And I love it. Want to revel in it.
But we can’t. Something’s shifted.
Luke stands a few feet away, his back to me as he methodically buckles his vest, shoulders rigid with tension that wasn’t there minutes ago. The controlled precision of his movements is so at odds with how his hands felt on my skin just moments ago—desperate, urgent, almost worshipping.
The atmosphere between us feels charged, changed in some profound way that I don’t have words for. Neither of us speaks. The only sound is our breathing slowly evening out in the mountain quiet, occasional wisps of steam rising in the cold air between us.
We just—
That actually happened.
And now what?
I want to reach for him, say something that makes sense of what just occurred between us. Something to acknowledge the shift, to understand what it means. But the words tangle in my throat, trapped by uncertainty and the creeping realization that reality is closing back in around us.
The mountains. The mission. Aurora. My mother. Everything we left behind when we found each other in that frantic moment now rushing back like a tide I can’t stop.
Luke turns to face me, finally. His expression is guarded but not cold, his eyes meeting mine with something careful in them. There’s a light in his eyes, like his dragon is closer to the surface than it has been for days.
“You said you gathered intelligence.” His voice is all business now. Professional. Detached. Like his body wasn’t pressed against mine minutes ago, like we hadn’t shared breaths and whispered each other’s names in passion.
My throat tightens with something that might be disappointment, but I force myself to match his tone. This is what we know, after all. The mission parameters. Our defined roles. Clean lines that make sense.
I reach for my pack, pulling out the stolen comm device, the metal cold against my still-sensitive fingertips. “Everything Aurora needs.” I tap the casing.
I repeat the details I learned: ritual specifications, the hybrid purge plans, the seventy-two-hour window they’re working with. I tell him about the facility maps I photographed, describe the ritual diagrams I saw, recite the list of identified hybrid locations.
Luke listens in silence, jaw tightening with each new piece of information I share.
When I finish, he’s still for a long moment. “You got all this. Without being detected.”
It’s not a question but a statement of fact, weighted with something I can’t quite read. Impressed? Angry? Both?
I nod, anyway.
“This is… significant.” He pauses, running a hand through his hair in a rare gesture of uncertainty. “Viktor will—” He stops himself. “You took an insane risk.”
I lift my chin, refusing to apologize for what I know was the right call.
“It paid off.”
His eyes finally meet mine fully, intensity crackling between us like static electricity. The connection feels almost tangible; something beyond physical attraction, beyond the mission, something that buzzes between us like a live wire.
“This time. Next time you might not—”
“There won’t be a next time,” I cut him off. “Because Aurora will stop them from doing this.”
Something shifts in his expression, the anger fading into something that looks almost like pride, reluctant but unmistakable.
“You’re right. They will.” He pauses, the acknowledgment seeming to cost him something. “Because of what you did.”
The praise—grudging but genuine—sends warmth spreading through my chest. After everything, his recognition matters more than it should.
“I had help,” I say, telling him about the strange power that guided me through the facility. “It was like something was working through me. Not controlling, but… enhancing. Like it recognized what I am.”
I don’t tell him how it felt. Like being connected to something ancient and knowing, something that understood me more deeply than I understand myself. Something that felt oddly like it knew him, too, like our fates were somehow woven together in a pattern I couldn’t yet see.
“I felt it again, too,” he says thoughtfully. “Something kept me off your trail. As if it knew I was going to stop you, and made sure I didn’t.”
The conversation dies naturally, and we settle into watching the sky, waiting for extraction. The silence feels less strained now, though there’s still so much to say.
Eventually, Luke checks his watch. “Thirty minutes. Maybe less.”
“And then?” I ask, suddenly anxious about what happens after this mountain, after this moment.
His nostrils flare almost imperceptibly, a flash of something vulnerable crossing his face before he masks it.
“Then we go home. Face whatever comes next.”
Neither of us mentions what happened between us directly.
But it sits in every careful inch of space we maintain.
In the way his eyes keep drifting to my face when he thinks I’m not looking, lingering on my lips.
In the way my fingers ache to reach for his hand, but don’t quite dare.
In the warmth that blooms in my stomach when our gazes accidentally meet.
The mountain air grows colder as we wait, the temperature dropping as evening approaches. I try not to shiver, but my body betrays me, a tremor running through my shoulders. My dragon half usually keeps me warmer than most, but exhaustion has dampened even that natural advantage.
Luke reaches for his jacket without comment and drapes it around my shoulders again.
Our fingers brush in the process; we both freeze at the contact.
Heat flares instantly where his skin touches mine, just like before, but different now—deeper, more intimate.
A spark of energy passes between us, like our dragons recognizing each other.
His eyes darken, pupils dilating slightly before he pulls back quickly.
“You’re shivering,” he says, voice a little hoarse. He tugs the jacket closer around me.
“Thank you,” I answer quietly. His scent envelops me from the fabric. I inhale deeply, allowing myself this small indulgence. His eyes track the movement, dark and inscrutable.
The tenderness beneath his simple gesture makes me swallow thickly. It’s these moments—these small, unguarded kindnesses—that undo me more thoroughly than any passionate embrace. The moments when the operator vanishes and the man appears.
A distant mechanical whine breaks the stillness, growing louder with each second, helicopter rotors cutting through mountain silence. Luke stands immediately, scanning the sky with sharpened focus, his body shifting subtly into a protective stance between me and the unknown.
“There.” He points to a dark shape appearing over the ridge.
The Aurora transport comes into view, sleek and black against gray clouds, descending toward us with remarkable speed. Relief floods through me at the sight; we’re getting out, going home, back to safety.
But beneath the relief, trepidation grows.
Because going home means facing my mother.
Facing questions I’m not ready to answer.
Facing whatever Luke becomes when it’s not just the two of us against the world.
The man I’ve come to know in these mountains might disappear entirely once we’re back among others.
The helicopter touches down fifty yards away, rotors kicking up snow and pine needles in a miniature blizzard. The air fills with the scent of fuel and melting snow. The doors slide open before the blades fully stop spinning.
Mom is first out, her platinum hair whipping in the rotor wash, eyes locked on me with an intensity that makes my breath catch. The Shadowhand’s legendary control shatters visibly when she spots me standing there, alive.
“Ember!” Her voice cracks. She crosses the distance at a near-run, movements fluid even in her haste. Then her arms are around me, pulling me into a fierce embrace that nearly knocks me off balance.
“Mom…” I begin, then trail off as words fail me.
“You’re alive. You’re alive.” Her voice breaks on the repetition, an unprecedented display of emotion from a woman who’s built a career on never showing weakness.
“We couldn’t get to you. Our systems kept failing, and my power—” Her throat works.
“I thought I was going to lose my mind, and…” Her words trail off as emotion takes over.
I wrap my arms around her, feeling the tremors running through her frame. This is my mother, not the Shadowhand, holding me like she’s afraid I might still disappear.
“I’m okay, Mom. I’m fine,” I tell her, the words automatic.
She pulls back, hands gripping my shoulders, eyes scanning for injuries. Her gaze lingers on a bruise at my collarbone, partially visible beneath my torn shirt. I resist the urge to adjust the fabric, knowing it would only draw more attention.
“You’re not fine. You’re—”
She stops abruptly, seeing something in my face that makes her pause. Something changed. Something different. Her nostrils flare slightly; dragon senses catching scents I can’t hide. Luke’s scent on me, embedded in my skin, my clothes, my hair.
Standing here, battered and exhausted but whole, I realize it’s true. I am fine. Not unscathed. Not unchanged. But stronger than when I left.
The naive girl who boarded that helicopter three days ago wouldn’t recognize the woman standing here now. I’ve been tested in ways I couldn’t have imagined, and I’ve survived. More than survived; I’ve proven myself. I’ve discovered powers I never knew I had, feelings I never expected to find.
My mother’s eyes track over me. Then her gaze shifts past me to where Luke now stands with Caleb and Dorian, who’ve approached while we embraced.