Chapter 9 Selene
NINE
SELENE
The poison takes three days to fully leave my system.
Three days of sleeping more than I’ve slept since childhood.
Three days of Drayke hovering—bringing food, checking my wounds, watching me with an intensity that would be suffocating if it weren’t also strangely comforting.
Three days of feeling the fire inside me shift and grow, responding to my recovery with an eagerness that borders on sentient.
On the fourth morning, I wake up hungry. Actually hungry, not the weak, watered-down version I’ve been managing. My shoulder aches where the scars are still healing—three parallel lines that have faded from angry red to pale pink—but the bone-deep exhaustion is gone.
I push myself upright, testing my body’s limits. Arms work. Legs work. The wound pulls when I stretch, but it’s manageable pain—the kind that reminds you you’re alive rather than making you wish you weren’t.
The cabin is empty. Drayke’s been doing that—giving me space during the mornings, patrolling the territory, checking in with his brothers. I should probably feel abandoned. Instead, I’m grateful for the privacy.
Because I have experiments to run.
I start with the candles. Six of them arranged on the coffee table, wicks fresh and waiting. Before the attack, I could light one with concentrated effort. Now...
I think about fire. Just think about it—the warmth, the light, the dancing hunger of flames.
All six candles ignite at once.
“Holy—” I jerk back, nearly falling off the couch. The flames are steady, controlled, burning exactly as candle flames should. But I didn’t focus. Didn’t concentrate. I barely even tried.
I stare at my hands. They look the same as always—freckled, slightly calloused from sword training, nails bitten short. Nothing about them screams supernatural fire-wielder.
But the power simmering beneath my skin tells a different story.
I spend the next hour testing limits.
The kettle on the stove heats to boiling with a touch—no flame beneath it, just my palm pressed against cold metal until steam rises.
I try it again with a bowl of water, then with a damp cloth.
Both times, the heat comes easily, almost eagerly, as if my fire has been waiting for permission to play.
I can shape the candle flames now, bend them toward me or away, make them dance in patterns. When I focus hard enough, I can create a small sculpture of fire in my palm—a bird, a flower, a tiny dragon that makes me laugh despite myself.
The dragon shape holds longest. Figures.
The power responds to emotion. That much is clear. When I’m calm, the flames are steady. When frustration creeps in—when I fail to hold a shape for more than a few seconds—the fire flares unpredictably.
And when I think about Drayke...
The candle flames triple in height. I have to smother them with a thought before they catch the ceiling.
Okay. Note to self: don’t think about the dragon while playing with fire.
Too late. My mind is already there—his hands on mine during training, the heat of his chest against my back, the way he looked at me after the battle with raw, desperate relief.
The way he stayed. The way he’s been staying, night after night, sleeping on the floor beside my couch because he refused to leave me alone while the poison worked its way out.
The fire in my veins pulses. Warm. Wanting.
I extinguish every flame in the room with a sharp exhale and force myself to focus on breakfast instead.
He returns mid-morning, bringing cold air and the scent of pine.
I’m in the middle of reheating my coffee with my bare hands—a trick I’ve just discovered works beautifully—when the door opens. His gaze drops to my palms wrapped around the mug, to the steam rising where none existed a moment ago.
“Experimenting?”
“Practicing.” I take a deliberate sip. Still perfect temperature. “Turns out nearly dying did wonders for my fire control.”
His jaw tightens at nearly dying, but he doesn’t lecture. Progress.
“Show me.”
I set down the mug. Hold out my hand. A flame springs to life in my palm—steady, controlled, burning without consuming. I shape it into a sphere, then a spiral, then something that might be a butterfly if butterflies were made of living fire.
Drayke watches without expression. But I’m learning to read him now—the slight widening of his eyes, the way his breath catches almost imperceptibly. He’s impressed. More than impressed.
“That’s remarkable control for someone who’s been training less than a week.”
“I’m a fast learner.” I close my fist, extinguishing the flame. “You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true.” He moves into the cabin, shrugging off his jacket. He’s been wearing human clothes more often lately—jeans and flannel instead of the leather and linen he seems to prefer. Making himself look less intimidating, maybe. Less other.
It’s not working. He still moves with predatory grace, still radiates heat and power, still makes my pulse quicken every time he enters a room.
“You’re staring.” His back is to me, but of course, he knows.
“You’re stare-worthy.” The words slip out before I can stop them. I blame the lingering effects of the poison. Or the fire in my blood. Or the way his shoulders flex as he hangs his jacket.
He turns. Catches my gaze. Holds it.
“Selene.” My name sounds different in his mouth. Heavier. More significant.
“Drayke.” I match his tone. Two can play this game.
“We need to talk.”
Those four words. Never good. Never, ever good.
“About?”
“About what you are.” He crosses to the couch, sits at the far end—leaving space between us that feels deliberate. “What your power means.”
“I know what I am. Fire-Bringer. Rare bloodline. Target for rogues who want to use my blood for nefarious purposes.” I tick the points off on my fingers. “Did I miss anything?”
“You’re not just a Fire-Bringer.” His voice drops. “You’re the first Fire-Bringer in centuries. The bloodline was supposed to have died out—we made sure of it, after the last one fell. Your grandmother hid you. Bound your power. Raised you away from our world specifically to keep you safe.”
“And now I’m here. In the middle of your world. With power I can’t fully control.” I lean back against the cushions, processing. “Lucky me.”
“You’re more than lucky.” He shifts, turning to face me more fully. The morning light catches the gold in his eyes. “You’re special. To our kind. To—” He breaks off. Jaw working.
“To?”
“To me.”
The words land like stones in still water. Ripples spreading outward, changing everything they touch.
“What does that mean?” My voice comes out steadier than I expect. “Exactly?”
“It means everything just got more complicated.” He scrubs a hand over his face—a surprisingly human gesture. “It means I can’t stay objective about your safety anymore. Can’t pretend I’m just a Guardian doing his duty.”
“Were you ever pretending?”
He meets my gaze. “No.”
The confession hangs between us for a long moment. Then Drayke stands abruptly, putting distance between us again.
“This changes things. The rogues knowing you’re awakening, knowing your power is growing—they’ll come harder now. Faster. We need to increase your training, shore up the cabin’s defenses, establish better communication with the Brotherhood—”
“We?” I push off the couch, following him as he paces toward the window. “Or you? Because it sounds like you’re making a lot of decisions without asking my opinion.”
“Your safety isn’t a democracy.”
“I’m not asking for a democracy.” I plant myself in front of him, forcing him to stop or run me over. “I’m asking for a partnership. You’re right—the rogues are a threat. My power is growing. Things are escalating. But you just rattled off a whole plan without once asking what I thought about it.”
“Because I know what needs to be done.”
“And I don’t? I’m the one they’re hunting, Drayke.
I’m the one who almost died. Don’t you think I might have some thoughts about how to keep that from happening again?
” I take a breath, forcing myself to stay calm.
“I’m not saying you’re wrong about the threats.
I’m saying you don’t get to make all the decisions about my life without including me in the conversation. ”
“I’m trying to protect you.”
“I know.” The admission costs me, but it’s true. “And I appreciate it. I do. But protection doesn’t mean control. It doesn’t mean shutting me out of decisions that affect my own survival.”
His jaw tightens. “You don’t understand—”
“Then tell me! Talk to me instead of at me.” The fire in my blood is rising, responding to my frustration.
I can feel it building, pressing against my skin.
“Everyone in my life has tried to make decisions for me at some point. My parents, who decided I wasn’t living up to their expectations.
My exes, who wanted me to be smaller, quieter, easier to manage.
I’m done being managed, Drayke. I want to be a partner.
An equal. Not someone you protect from a distance while making all the choices alone. ”
“This is different.”
“How?” I step closer. Close enough to feel his heat. Close enough to see the muscle jumping in his jaw. “Explain it to me. Make me understand why I don’t get a say in my own fate.”
“Because I can’t lose you!” The words rip out of him, raw and ragged. “Because if something happens to you while I’m making plans and holding meetings—”
“Then let me help prevent that!” I’m shouting now.
We’re both shouting, toe to toe in the middle of the cabin, the air between us crackling with tension.
“I’m not asking to be reckless. I’m asking to be involved.
There’s a difference. I know the rogues are dangerous.
I know my power is unpredictable. I almost died—believe me, I haven’t forgotten. ”
“Then why are you fighting me on this?”