Chapter 11 Selene
ELEVEN
SELENE
The smell hits me before I hear it. A hard thump on the porch, rattling the door.
Copper and decay, thick enough to coat the back of my throat. I’m halfway through my morning coffee when Drayke goes rigid beside me, nostrils flaring, eyes snapping to the front door.
He returned when the sun came up. He should’ve just stayed gone. We’ve been dancing around each other all morning—careful touches, loaded glances, neither of us quite ready to address what happened last night. The tension between us is a living thing, humming with unfinished business.
But the smell cuts through all of that.
“Stay here.”
“Like hell.” I’m already moving, following him onto the porch before he can stop me.
The deer lies on the porch. Eviscerated. Entrails dangling in wet ropes, blood pooling on the weathered wood beneath it.
But that’s not the worst part.
Carved into the hide, burned black around the edges like someone used a blowtorch: MATE.
Drayke’s whole body vibrates with barely contained fury. His eyes glow bright, pupils elongating, and when he speaks, his voice carries an inhuman resonance that makes my teeth ache.
“They were here. On my territory. At my door.” Each word drops like a stone into still water.
I study the carcass with clinical detachment. EMT training taught me to compartmentalize gore—you don’t pass those courses by falling apart at the sight of blood. “Well. That’s not ominous at all.”
He rounds on me. “This isn’t funny.”
“No, it’s not.” I meet his blazing gaze steadily. “It’s a threat. A very graphic, very obvious threat designed to scare us. And if I don’t joke about it, I’m going to—” I cut myself off.
His jaw clenches. He heard what I didn’t say.
“I’ll dispose of it.” He reaches for the rope.
“I’ll clean up.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I’m not running, Drayke.” I grab a bucket from the corner, fill it from the rain barrel. “Don’t even ask.”
We work in grim silence. He gathers the carcass, carries it into the forest to burn. I scrub blood from the porch boards with steady hands and a stomach that refuses to turn. By the time the wood is clean, my arms ache and my knees are sore from kneeling.
But the MATE carved into flesh stays burned into my memory.
The deer is just the beginning.
Mid-morning, Drayke finds burned symbols on the trees ringing the cabin. Crude runes I don’t recognize, scorched into bark at dragon-eye height. His face goes carefully blank when he sees them, which tells me everything I need to know about how bad they are.
“What do they say?”
“Threats. Warnings.” He won’t meet my eyes. “Descriptions of what they’ll do when they take you.”
My stomach twists, but I keep my voice steady. “Charming. Do they offer a timeline, or is it more of a vague ‘coming soon’ situation?”
“Selene.” His voice is rough. Strained.
“What? You want me to panic? Fall apart?” I cross my arms, hiding the tremor in my hands. “That’s what they want. I won’t give it to them.”
He stares at me for a long moment. Then something in his expression shifts—respect, maybe. Or resignation.
“Stay close to the cabin today.”
“Already planned on it, Ranger Rick.”
By noon, the wind carries whispers. My name, hissed from directions I can’t pinpoint. Seeeelene. Fire-Bringerrr. Every time I turn toward the sound, there’s nothing but rustling leaves and shadows that move wrong.
The shadows are the worst part. They slide between trees when I’m not looking directly at them, freezing in place when I turn my head. Like they’re playing a game. Testing my reactions.
Once, I catch the outline of wings against the midday sun. Gone before I can blink.
Drayke paces the perimeter like a caged predator, tension radiating off him in waves. Each new threat ratchets his protectiveness higher. By mid-afternoon, he’s barely letting me out of arm’s reach.
“They know what you are to me.” He stands at the window, watching the tree line with predator-sharp focus. “They’re trying to provoke a response.”
“Good.” I join him at the window, our shoulders brushing. “I’m tired of hiding.”
He turns. Looks down at me with an expression I can’t quite read—fury and fear and something hotter underneath. “You should be afraid.”
“Should be. Aren’t.” I hold his gaze. “They can carve all the threats they want into dead animals. They can whisper my name until they’re hoarse. But I’m not running, and I’m not breaking. If they want me, they’ll have to come and get me.”
His nostrils flare.
“That fearlessness is going to get you killed.”
“Maybe.” I reach up, touch his jaw. He leans into it despite himself. “Or maybe it’s going to keep me alive. Fear makes you stupid. Makes you hesitate. I’d rather die fighting than live cowering.”
He catches my wrist. Presses his lips to my pulse point. The gesture is tender and possessive all at once.
“You infuriate me.”
“I know.”
“And terrify me.”
“I know that too.”
“And—” He stops. Swallows hard. Whatever he was going to say dies on his tongue.
I don’t push. Not now. There’s too much between us already—too much said and unsaid, too much want and fear tangled together like vines.
“I need to check the eastern perimeter.” He releases my wrist. “Stay inside. Lock the door. Don’t open it for anyone but me.”
“Yes, sir.” I mock-salute. He doesn’t smile, but the tension in his shoulders eases fractionally.
He’s gone before I can say anything else.
With Drayke patrolling and the cabin locked tight, I turn to Grandma’s journals.
I’ve read them—or thought I had. The history of Fire-Bringers, the legends of dragons, the prophecies that seem to multiply the more I learn. But today, restless and frustrated with waiting, I examine the oldest journal more closely.
A seam in the leather binding catches my eye. A hidden pocket I missed before.
I work my fingers into the gap and pull out a folded cloth bundle, small enough to fit in my palm. The fabric is old—linen, maybe, yellowed with age and covered in symbols that make my eyes water when I stare too long.
When I try to unwrap it, the symbols flare with heat. Not enough to burn, but enough to warn.
Wards. Protection against anyone who isn’t meant to read what’s inside.
I close my eyes. Focus on the fire in my blood—the power that’s become as familiar as breathing over the past days. Push that warmth into my fingertips, coaxing rather than forcing.
The wards flicker. Resist. Then dissolve like morning mist, recognizing me as one of their own.
Inside the cloth, a smaller journal. Leather so old, it’s almost black, pages brittle with age. The handwriting isn’t Grandma’s—it’s older, more formal, written in a dialect that takes me a moment to parse.
But the diagrams need no translation.
Dragons and women. Fire and flesh. A ritual described in meticulous detail across page after page.
The claiming.
I read with growing understanding. The ritual isn’t just physical—it’s magical. A merging of dragon fire and Fire-Bringer blood that creates a permanent mark. A joining so complete that the claimed pair can sense each other’s emotions, share strength across distances, fight as one.
“Dragon’s fire flows into mate’s skin,” I read aloud, tracing the faded ink. “Creating permanent mark of claiming. Two become one, fire and blood, until death severs what life has joined.”
Beautiful. Terrifying. Final.
I turn the page and find the warnings.
The claiming requires absolute trust. Complete surrender from both parties.
If the Fire-Bringer resists—even unconsciously—the dragon’s fire will overwhelm instead of merge.
Previous attempts without proper preparation.
.. The next words are heavily underlined.
...resulted in the Fire-Bringer’s death.
My breath catches.
I flip through more pages. Notes in different hands—Fire-Bringers across generations, recording their experiences.
Some successful. Many... not. The failures are described in clinical detail.
The dragon lost control. The Fire-Bringer was consumed from within.
The claiming fire burned too hot, too fast.
But there’s a pattern in the successes. Trust, always trust. And time—time to build that trust, to strengthen the Fire-Bringer’s power, to prepare body and soul for the merging.
“But what if I’m strong enough?” I whisper to the empty room. “What if I’m ready?”
The fire in my blood pulses in response. Eager. Hungry.
I close the journal and stare at my hands. Fire flickers between my fingers, controlled now, responding to my will instead of my emotions. My power has grown faster than any of us expected. Faster than Drayke’s fear can account for.
Maybe I’m not like the others. Maybe the rules don’t apply the same way.
Or maybe I’m fooling myself, and the claiming would burn me to ash just like it burned all the Fire-Bringers who came before.
Either way, I deserve to know.
I tuck the hidden journal back into its cloth wrapper and slide it into my pocket. Through the window, the sun is sinking toward the mountains, painting the sky in shades of blood and gold.
The whispers have stopped. The shadows have stilled. Whatever game the rogues were playing, they’ve retreated for now.
But they’ll be back. The deer made that clear enough. They know where I am, what I am, who I belong to. And they’re not going to stop until they have me.
Unless I give them a reason to stop.
I stare at my hands. Fire flickers between my fingers, brighter than it’s ever been. My power is growing—fast. Maybe fast enough.
We’re going to have a conversation when he gets back. A real one. About the claiming. About the risks. About what I’m willing to sacrifice to be with him.
Because I’m not running. I’m not hiding. And I’m sure as hell not letting fear decide my fate.
Not anymore.