Chapter 13
Mara
We head back to our little cabin as the feast winds down, the world spinning slightly from too much vin fiert and not enough common sense.
K’s hand is warm and steady on my elbow, guiding me through the darkened village. Always protective. Always watching out for me, even when I’ve had enough spiced wine to make the cobblestones look like they’re moving.
“I’m fine,” I tell him for the third time. “Totally steady.”
“You are listing to the left.”
“That’s just my natural charm.”
He makes a sound that might be a laugh. Might be exasperation. With K, it’s hard to tell.
The door closes behind us with a solid thunk. The fire still burns low in the hearth, flickering flames turning the walls golden. Someone tended it while we were gone—added wood, banked it properly. The villagers’ hospitality is both touching and slightly unnerving.
I collapse onto one of the sleeping pallets with less grace than I’d like. The room spins pleasantly. “Okay, so maybe I had a little too much wine.”
“You had four cups.” K settles onto the other pallet, watching me in a way that makes my skin tingle. “Perhaps five.”
“Are you counting my drinks now?”
“I am monitoring your well-being.” He says it so seriously that I can’t tell if he’s joking. “You are still recovering.”
“From what? The crash that should’ve killed me but miraculously didn’t?” I wave a hand vaguely. “I’m fine. Better than fine. I feel good.”
And I do. For the first time in days—maybe weeks, if I’m honest with myself—the constant anxiety has loosened its grip. The wine helped. The laughter helped. The simple act of being surrounded by people who weren’t hunting me or lying to me or expecting me to be something I’m not.
Just… existing. Being Mara. Blue hair and conspiracy theories and all.
“What did Dragana want to speak with you about?” K asks. “Earlier, when she took you aside?”
I try to remember through the pleasant haze. “Oh. That. She mostly just… asked questions.”
“What kind of questions?”
“About why I was in the mountains. What I was doing here. Who I was traveling with.” I pick at a loose thread on the blanket. “Standard interrogation stuff, really. Very ‘village elder protects her people from suspicious outsiders.’”
K’s brow furrows. “And what did you tell her?”
“The truth.” I pause, feeling like a fraud because it’s not. “About the geological survey. That we were documenting mineral deposits, and the helicopter crashed. That you saved my life.”
What I don’t tell him: how Dragana’s eyes sharpened when I mentioned the crash. When I spoke of the others.
How I deflected and dodged and absolutely did not mention dragons.
Because how do you tell someone you were sent on a secret mission to cover up signs of a full-scale supernatural war?
Answer: You don’t.
You smile and nod and change the subject and pray they never find out you’ve been lying the entire time.
“Did she tell you anything useful?” I ask, deflecting. “About who you are? Where you’re from?”
K’s expression darkens. “No. More cryptic warnings about remembering when I am ready. About the past having teeth.” He flexes his hands in frustration. “She knows about me. I am certain of it. But she refuses to speak plainly.”
I think about the paintings in the cave. The massive winged creatures breathing fire. The way K stared at them like he was looking at something both foreign and intimately familiar.
The way Andrei and Nicolae spoke of the old gods with the casual certainty of stating an obvious fact.
Guilt twists in my stomach. I should tell him. Should just rip off the Band-Aid and say: Hey, so, funny story—dragons are real. Like, actual dragons. Wings and fire and centuries-old magical beings. And one of them’s my boss. Surprise!
Except I can’t.
Because I promised Elena and Caleb I’d protect their secret. Promised the Aurora Collective that I’d never expose dragonkind to the world.
Even if keeping that promise means lying to the man who saved my life.
Especially if it means that.
“Maybe she’s right,” I say quietly. “Maybe some things you need to remember on your own.”
K looks at me with an expression I can’t read. “And what if I never remember? What if the darkness remains, and I am left with only fragments and instinct?”
“Then you build a new life.” I meet his eyes. “With what you have now. Who you are now. Not who you were.”
“Is that what you did?” His voice is gentle. “When you felt lost? Build a new life from fragments?”
The question hits harder than it should. “Yeah. I guess I did.”
“And are you happy? With what you built?”
I open my mouth to give some flippant answer. Some joke about conspiracy theories and viral content and living my best crazy life.
The truth comes out instead. “No. Not really. I’m… surviving. But surviving isn’t the same as living.”
K is quiet for a moment. Then he rises and crosses to my pallet, settling beside me with careful deliberation.
“I do not want you to merely survive, Mara.” He says it with such simple certainty that my chest aches. “You deserve more than that.”
“Yeah, well… We don’t always get what we deserve.”
“No. But perhaps—” He reaches out, fingertips brushing a strand of my hair. Blue at the tips, fading to black at the roots. “Perhaps we can choose what we build.”
My breath catches. “K—”
“Why is your hair this color?” he asks suddenly, genuine curiosity in his voice. “The blue. Is it… natural? Or chosen?”
A laugh bubbles up despite everything. “Chosen. Very chosen. It’s dye. You know… artificial color? I change it every few months depending on my mood.”
“Your mood?”
“Yeah. I’ve been blue, purple, pink, green…
one very regrettable stint with orange that made me look like a traffic cone.
” I touch the blue strands self-consciously.
It’s almost grown out now, my natural black overwhelming the tint.
“This was my ‘Blue Period.’ Like Picasso. Except instead of painting sad people, I just dyed my hair and hunted down aliens.”
“Picasso and aliens…” His voice is musing, but he doesn’t press further. He studies the strands between his fingers with fascination. “It suits you. Bold. Unexpected. Entirely yourself.”
The compliment lands softer than it should. Warmer.
“Thanks,” I whisper.
His hand slides from my hair to cup my face. Thumb brushing my cheekbone with that same tenderness from this morning at the stream.
“You are brave, Mara Jones.” His voice drops lower. “Braver than you know.”
“I’m really not—”
“You survived a life of upheaval. Loneliness. And still you laugh. Still you find joy in small things. Still you…” He pauses, searching for words. “Still you care. About others. About truth. About protecting people even when it costs you.”
My throat tightens. “How do you know I’m protecting people?”
“Because I see it.” His eyes hold mine. “The way you avoid questions. The way you keep secrets even from me. You carry weight you will not share. Protect knowledge you cannot speak.” His thumb traces my jaw. “It is honorable. And exhausting. And I wish—”
“What?” I breathe.
“I wish you did not have to carry it alone.”
Something snaps inside me. A decision made without thinking.
I kiss him.
Not gentle like this morning. This is desperate, hungry, all the want I’ve been suppressing for days pouring out at once.
He responds immediately. His hand slides into my hair, cupping the back of my head as he deepens the kiss. His other arm wraps around my waist, pulling me against him, and I feel the solid warmth of his body, the heat radiating from his skin even through layers of fabric.
It’s not enough.
My hands move to his shirt, tugging at the laces. He helps, pulling it over his head in one smooth motion.
And… God!
I’ve seen him shirtless before—at the stream this morning, water sliding over defined muscle. But up close, in firelight, with his eyes on mine and his breath coming faster—
It’s not the same.
I trail my fingertips over his chest. Feel the hard muscle beneath hot skin. Trace the tattoos that wind across his shoulders and down his arms in patterns that seem almost alive in the flickering light.
Scales. Flames. Wings.
Wait—
“Mara.” His voice is rough. Strained. “If you want to stop—”
“I don’t want to stop.” I lean in, press my lips to his throat. Feel his pulse jump beneath my mouth. “Do you?”
“No.” The word comes out strangled. “But you have been drinking, and I will not—”
“I’m tipsy. Not drunk. And I’m very, very sure about this.” I pull back enough to meet his eyes. “Are you?”
For a long moment, he just looks at me. Searching my face for… what? Doubt? Hesitation?
He won’t find either.
“Yes,” he says finally. “I am certain.”
He kisses me again. Slower this time. Deliberate. His hands move to the shirt I’m wearing and pause.
“May I?” he asks.
The formality is so at odds with the heat between us that I almost laugh. “Yes. God, yes.”
He lifts the fabric carefully, like I’m something precious instead of a walking disaster. The cool air hits my skin, and I shiver.
Then his hands are on me—warm palms sliding up my ribs, over my shoulders, down my arms. Learning the shape of me.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs.
I silence him with another kiss. Can’t handle compliments right now. Can’t process the way he’s looking at me like I’m more than just Mara Jones.
My hands work at the laces of his leather pants. He helps again, kicking them off with less grace than before. Then we’re skin to skin, heat to heat, and coherent thought becomes impossible.
I’ve had sex before. Awkward fumbling in college. A few relationships that fizzled before getting serious.
Nothing that felt like this.
Like my body recognizes something my mind refuses to acknowledge.
His mouth moves from my lips to my throat, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. Down to my collarbone. Lower.
When his lips close around my nipple, I arch into him with a gasp. His tongue circles the sensitive peak before his teeth graze it—just this side of too much.