Primal Flame (Dark Flight #1)

Chapter 1 Selene

ONE

SELENE

The engine coughs, sputters, and dies with a pathetic wheeze that sounds almost apologetic.

“Of course.” I slam my palm against the steering wheel. Steam curls from under the hood, ghostly wisps swallowed by the rain sheeting across my windshield. “Of course, you die now, you piece of junk.”

My Honda Civic has survived three cross-country moves, two bad relationships, and a close encounter with a deer on I-70. But apparently, Grandma’s final gift comes with a side of hypothermia.

Lightning cracks overhead, illuminating the narrow mountain road in stark white. The trees press close on both sides, their branches reaching across the asphalt like gnarled fingers. According to my phone—which lost signal twenty minutes ago—the cabin is roughly a mile ahead.

One mile. In a thunderstorm. At dusk. On a mountain I’ve never set foot on.

This is fine. I grab my emergency pack from the backseat—thank you, paranoid father—and shove open the door.

The rain hits me instantly, cold and sharp. Within seconds, my jacket is soaked through, my hair plastered to my face. I adjust the pack’s straps and start walking, boots squelching in the mud pooling along the road’s edge.

The incline climbs steadily. My thighs burn. My lungs ache from the altitude I’m not used to. But I keep moving because the alternative is standing still in the dark, waiting to become a statistic.

Selene Ward, 28, found eaten by mountain lions. Friends described her as “really should have stayed in Portland.”

The forest is watching.

I feel it almost immediately—that prickling awareness between my shoulder blades. The sensation of being observed. Measured.

Probably just wildlife. I pull my jacket tighter. Deer. Raccoons. Normal mountain things that don’t eat people.

Something large moves through the trees to my left.

I freeze mid-step. The sound is unmistakable—branches cracking, undergrowth rustling. Heavy. Deliberate. Moving parallel to the road.

Moving alongside me.

My hand closes around a fallen branch—thick, solid, roughly the length of a baseball bat. “I’ve got pepper spray and anger issues!” I shout into the darkness. My voice comes out steadier than I feel. “And this is private property, so whatever you are, back off!”

The sounds stop.

Not fade away. Stop. Instantly. As if whatever was out there heard me and simply... decided to be silent.

My heart hammers against my ribs. I start walking again. Faster.

The road curves around a massive oak, and that’s when I see them—claw marks gouged into the bark. Four parallel grooves, each as long as my forearm and deep enough to expose the pale wood beneath.

I trace one with my fingertip. Still sticky with sap. Fresh.

Bears don’t have claws this long. I pull my hand back. What the hell lives up here?

The cabin appears through the trees like a dark promise. Weathered logs, a stone chimney, a covered porch that spans the front. Smaller than I expected. More isolated.

No neighbors. No streetlights. No witnesses if something decides to drag me off into the woods.

Charming, Grandma. Really warming up to your real estate choices.

The door is secured with an electronic keypad—which feels wildly out of place given the rustic exterior. I punch in the code from Grandma’s lawyer: her birthday backward. The lock clicks. I push inside and slam the door behind me, sagging against it as my lungs finally remember how to work.

Safe. You’re safe.

The interior is... not what I expected.

From outside, the cabin looked like something out of a pioneer museum. Inside, it’s anything but. Modern appliances gleam in the kitchen. The furniture is comfortable, quality pieces. A flat-screen TV hangs above the fireplace.

But that’s not what catches my attention.

Carved into the wooden beams overhead—intricate, deliberate, beautiful—are symbols I’ve never seen. Spiraling patterns that seem to shift in my peripheral vision. Geometric shapes that make my head ache if I stare too long.

Dragon runes.

The words surface from nowhere, certain and strange. I don’t know how I know. I just... do.

The fireplace draws me closer. Fresh scorch marks blacken the stones around the hearth. Recent. As if someone burned something here within the past few days.

Above the mantel, a medieval sword hangs with an edge that gleams.

What the hell were you into, Grandma?

I drop my pack by the couch and start exploring. The bedroom is sparse but comfortable. The bathroom is stocked with thick towels. The kitchen pantry holds enough canned goods to survive a siege.

In the living room, I find what the lawyer told me about. A section of the wall that sounds hollow when I knock. I press, prod, and finally locate the hidden latch—a carved symbol that depresses like a button.

A panel swings open.

Journals. Dozens of them. Leather-bound, handwritten, their pages yellowed with age. I grab the one on top and flip it open.

My grandmother’s handwriting fills the page. Neat. Precise. Completely insane.

The dragon bloodlines are older than human memory. They walk among us, hidden in plain sight, guardians of a balance most will never comprehend. And our family, Selene—our blood carries fire.

I flip to another entry.

Fire-Bringers are rare. Perhaps one in a generation. I sensed the spark in you from the moment you were born, but your mother refused to acknowledge it. She wanted you safe. Normal. But there is no hiding from what we are.

“Dragon bloodlines.” I say the words out loud, testing them. They sound ridiculous. Fantasy nonsense from a grandmother I barely knew.

Grandma Helen. Sensible. Practical. Made the best pies at Thanksgiving and always smelled like lavender. Apparently also believed she was a descendant of fire-breathing lizards.

The dementia must have started earlier than anyone realized.

But those claw marks on the tree...

The fire roars to life.

I spin toward the hearth, journal clutched to my chest. Flames dance in the fireplace—tall, hungry flames that weren’t there seconds ago. No kindling. No match. No logical explanation.

Okay. I take a shaky breath. Okay. That’s... that’s probably some kind of automatic ignition system. Rich people have those. Right?

The flames lean toward me. Actually lean, as if caught by a wind that doesn’t exist. As if reaching for something.

I stumble back, grab my pack, and retreat to the bedroom. The door has a solid lock. I use it.

DRAYKE

Her scent hits me mid-patrol.

I’m two thousand feet up, wings cutting through the storm clouds, when it rises from the forest below. Wildflowers. Something warm—determination, maybe, or stubbornness. And beneath it all, a note that stops me dead in the air.

Fire.

Not burning wood or scorched earth. Fire itself. Raw and waiting. The kind of fire that lives in the heart of a volcano. The kind that existed before the first dragon ever drew breath.

My dragon whips around midair.

MATE. The word isn’t a thought. It’s a command. CLAIM. NOW.

I bank hard, circling lower despite every rational part of my brain screaming warnings. The rain streams across my scales, doing nothing to cool the heat building under my skin. Centuries of discipline. Centuries of control. And now this woman’s scent threatens to unravel everything.

I find her on the road. Walking. In a thunderstorm. With nothing but a pack on her back and a branch in her hand.

She’s either incredibly brave or incredibly foolish.

The dragon doesn’t care which. It wants her regardless.

I land in the trees a hundred yards away, shift to human form behind a massive pine. The transformation is violent—bones cracking, scales receding, wings folding into flesh. I brace against the bark, fighting the urge to go to her.

“I’ve got pepper spray and anger issues!” Her voice carries through the rain.

My dragon stills. Listen to her. She’s perfect.

“And this is private property, so whatever you are, back off!”

She’s shouting at shadows in a monster-filled forest with nothing but a stick and attitude. Something in my chest clenches. Definitely both. Brave and foolish.

I follow her at a distance, staying downwind, tracking her progress through the trees. She’s fast for a human. Competent. Doesn’t panic when she finds the claw marks—rogues have been testing our borders for weeks—she just studies them with clinical interest.

Smart. She’s smart too.

She keeps walking. Doesn’t run. Doesn’t cry. Sets her jaw and pushes forward through the rain and the dark and the very real possibility that something is hunting her.

And she has no idea what she is. No idea that her blood sings to every dragon within a hundred miles. No idea that her grandmother was one of us, too—bound to a human life by choice rather than birth.

The dragon’s approval pulses through me, hot and insistent. Every instinct I possess screams to reveal myself. To claim her before anyone else realizes what she is.

A Fire-Bringer. The first in centuries.

And she just walked straight into the most dangerous territory on the continent.

I perch on the cabin roof in dragon form, claws digging into the old shingles.

Below, she fortifies. Pots balanced on the door handle. Chairs wedged under windows. That baseball bat never leaving her hand. I can hear her muttering through the chimney, her voice carrying up through the cold night air.

“Okay, creepy forest creatures, bring it on.” Metal clangs—more pots, probably. “I’ve survived three terrible boyfriends and student loan debt. Whatever you are, I guarantee I’m meaner.”

My dragon rumbles with amusement. Our mate is fierce.

She’s not ours. I dig my claws deeper into the wood. She can’t be.

I remember the last time I lost control. A rogue dragon had killed a human child in our territory—an act so vile, so needless, that when I found him, my dragon took over completely. By the time I surfaced, there was nothing left to identify. Just ash and the distant horror in my brothers’ faces.

“You were gone for three days,” Zyphon had said. “We couldn’t reach you at all.”

Three days lost to the dragon. Three days of pure, savage instinct.

And that was without a mate. Without the claiming fire burning in my veins.

A wild boar emerges from the trees, drawn by the smell of food from the cabin. It sniffs the air, grunts, starts toward the porch.

I release a controlled burst of flame. Just enough to singe its hindquarters. The boar squeals and crashes back into the underbrush.

Protecting her. Not claiming her. There’s a difference.

Inside, she’s reading the old woman’s journals. I can smell the yellowed paper, hear the whisper of pages turning. Learning about us. About herself.

Go to her, the dragon demands. Explain. Protect. Claim.

If I go to her now, I’ll pin her against the nearest wall within seconds. My claws score the shingles. And I won’t be gentle. I won’t be careful. I’ll claim her with fire and teeth and she’ll burn.

The rogues make their move just before dawn. Three of them, young and stupid, drawn by the Fire-Bringer’s scent. They approach from the east, their shadows slinking through the pre-dawn mist.

I’m on them before they get within a hundred yards. Silent. Efficient. I leave them alive but broken, their wings shredded, their pride destroyed.

“Tell your masters,” I snarl at the one still conscious. “She’s under my protection. Anyone who touches her answers to me.”

He spits blood on my feet. “She’s a Fire-Bringer. Every dragon on the continent will come for her. You can’t protect her forever, Guardian King.”

“Watch me.”

I leave him crawling toward his broken companions and return to my perch. Inside, she’s still awake. Still clutching that bat. Still muttering curses at the universe.

She’s stronger than she knows. I fold my wings against my back. But strength won’t save her from what’s coming.

Nothing will.

Except maybe me.

The thought terrifies me more than any rogue army ever could. Because if I let myself protect her—truly protect her—I’ll have to be near her. And if I’m near her, the dragon will demand more than protection.

It will demand everything.

The sun breaks over the mountains. Golden light spills across the forest, catches on my scales. I should leave. Report to my brothers. Maintain distance.

I don’t move.

Inside, I hear her stand. Stretch. Start making coffee with determined clanks and muttered complaints. “Dragons. Grandma was writing about dragons. Completely normal. Everything is completely normal.”

I settle deeper into my crouch, watching the smoke curl from the chimney.

Ways I could overwhelm her: pin her against the wall. Cage her with my body. Mark her throat with my teeth. Burn my claim into her skin until she—

I force the thoughts down. Lock them away. They don’t help.

She’s mine. Every cell in my body knows it.

Which is exactly why I can never let myself have her.

The morning light catches the smoke from her chimney, curling up through the cold air. She’s alive. Safe. For now.

Tomorrow, the rogues will regroup. Tomorrow, word will spread through the territory about the Fire-Bringer in the Guardian King’s domain. Tomorrow, everything changes.

But for now, I hold my position on the roof of her cabin, scales darkening to blend with the shadows, and I wait.

Guarding what I cannot claim.

Wanting what I cannot have.