Chapter 19
Mara
I wake to pain. Not the sharp kind. The dull, grinding variety that’s colonized my bones since the helicopter crash. Except now it’s worse. Deeper. Like someone’s pressing on bruises that go all the way to the marrow.
My hand goes to my chest automatically. The place where K healed me.
Except he’s not here anymore.
The memory slams in—armored operatives dragging him away while I screamed his name from the dirt.
My voice going hoarse. His eyes locked on mine until they shoved him into the transport and disappeared down the mountain.
The way he didn’t fight. Didn’t transform.
Just let them take him because they’d threatened me.
My throat tightens.
No. Not doing this. Not breaking down again.
I push myself upright and immediately regret it. The dwelling tips sideways. I catch myself against the wall, breathing through the nausea until the world steadies.
The fire’s burned down to embers. Dawn light filters through the single window. I make myself stand. Make myself walk to the water basin. Splash my face even though my hands shake.
I feel like hell, and my reflection confirms it. Dark circles. Bruising along my jaw from where I hit the ground. And something else—a grayish tinge to my skin that wasn’t there yesterday.
I look sick.
“You’re fine,” I mutter to my reflection. “Totally fine. This is just… exhaustion. Dehydration. Probably mild hypothermia because it’s fucking freezing in these mountains without—”
I stop myself.
Because that’s the problem, isn’t it?
I didn’t just sleep alone. I slept without K’s warmth beside me. Without his fire wrapping around me like it has every single night since the crash.
Without whatever connection he’d created when he pulled me back from death.
My hand goes to my chest again. That hollow feeling expanding.
The door opens. Dragana enters with bread and tea, her sharp eyes taking in my state with a single glance.
“You should eat.”
“I’m fine.”
“You are not fine. Sit.”
It’s not a request. I’ve learned not to argue when she uses that tone.
I sit.
She sets the food in front of me, then settles onto the opposite stool. The silence stretches while I force myself to take a bite of bread my stomach doesn’t want.
“You look worse than yesterday,” she says finally.
“Gee, thanks. Really boosting my self-esteem here.”
“I am not insulting you, child. I am observing.” She tilts her head. “The injury to your shoulder—how long has it troubled you?”
“Since yesterday.” I touch it gingerly. The bruising’s spread overnight, deep purple creeping across my collarbone. “Landed on it during the fight.”
“Show me.”
I hesitate, then pull up my shirt. The sight that greets me makes bile rise in my throat. It’s not just my shoulder. The cut across my torso has deepened overnight, the edges gaping.
Dragana’s expression darkens.
“Shit,” I say. “They must have got me worse than I thought.”
She shakes her head. “This wound is at least a week old.”
I stare at her. “No, it’s not. I literally just—”
“You are mistaken.” Her tone allows no argument. “The bruising pattern, the tissue damage, the way the inflammation has spread. This happened days ago, not yesterday.”
The bread goes dry in my mouth.
“That’s impossible.”
“Is it?” She leans back, crossing her arms. “Tell me about the helicopter crash. What happened to you?”
The question throws me. “I… My chest was crushed. Couldn’t breathe. K pulled me out and—”
“And healed you.”
“Yeah. I guess.”
“You guess.” The dryness in her voice could start fires. “What do you remember of the healing?”
“Not much. I was passing in and out. But when I woke up, the pain was gone. Mostly. I could breathe again.” I frown. “Why does this matter?”
“Because dragon fire does more than mend bone and tissue.” She leans forward, her ancient eyes holding mine. “Some dragons have a special gift. The gift of healing. And when they use their power to heal someone on the verge of death, they forge a connection. A bond.”
The word lands wrong. Too big. Too permanent.
“A bond?”
“Their power sustains the injured person. Anchors them to life while the body finishes repairing itself.” Her expression is grave. “But when the dragon is no longer near…”
The pieces click together with sickening clarity.
“The healing reverses.”
She nods. “Your body was more damaged than you knew, child. His power has been keeping you alive. And now that he is gone—”
“The injuries are coming back.” My hand goes to my chest. That hollow ache that’s been building since I woke.
Not new pain.
Old pain, resurfacing. Reclaiming territory K’s fire had been defending.
“How badly were you wounded?” Dragana asks quietly.
I pause. “Fatally,” I finally say, because that much was never in question.
“Oh.” Her face drops. “Oh… Mara…”
Shit.
“So I’m dying.”
“You are ailing.” The distinction seems important to her. “If you reunite with him soon, the bond will stabilize. The healing will complete naturally.”
“And if I don’t?”
She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to.
The silence that follows is different from before. Heavier.
I should be panicking. Should be spiraling into full existential crisis mode—Mara Jones, age twenty-six, about to die in a Romanian mountain village because her dragon boyfriend got kidnapped by supernatural extremists.
Except that’s not quite right, is it? Because K isn’t my boyfriend. He’s a man I’ve known for eight days. A man with no memory and a past he can’t access and a tendency to call me by another woman’s name when things get intimate.
A man whose fire chose me anyway.
That’s what he said before. His fire recognized something in me. Decided I was worth saving. Worth bonding to.
And now I’m literally dying without him.
“This is so fucked up,” I whisper.
Dragana makes a sound that might be agreement. “Dragon bonds often are.”
“We’re not bonded—” I start to protest, but she cuts me off with a look.
“What you call it does not change what it is.” She stands, moving toward the door.
“Wait.” I push to my feet, ignoring the way my vision swims. “You said dragon bonds. Like… like mate bonds?”
Something flickers in her expression. Not quite amusement. Not quite pity.
“That is for you to discover, child. But know this: dragon fire does not bind itself to just anyone. It chooses carefully. And once it chooses…” She pauses at the threshold. “Well. You are learning what that means.”
“I need to find him, Dragana.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. “I’m going to locate where they’re keeping him and call in help. People who can actually get him out.”
She studies me for a long moment. “You intend to stay there. To watch.”
“Until my people arrive, yes.” I lift my chin. “I need to guide them in. Make sure nothing changes before they get there.”
“That could take hours. And you are unwell.”
“I’ll manage.”
“You are stubborn.”
“Yeah, well.” I manage something that might be a smile. “Dragon fire doesn’t bind itself to just anyone, right? Maybe it chose someone too stubborn to give up.”
The corner of her mouth twitches. Almost a smile. “Nicolae and Andrei will go with you. They will keep you safe… and keep you from doing anything foolish.”
“I make no promises about the foolish part.”
“I expect nothing less.” She moves toward the door, then pauses again. “The fire-blood chose well, I think. Even if neither of you understands why yet.”
She leaves before I can ask what the hell that’s supposed to mean.
I stand alone in the cabin, bread forgotten, while my mind races through everything that’s happened since the crash.
K pulling me from the wreckage.
K carrying me through mountains.
K’s warmth surrounding me every night, his presence constant at my side.
The kiss in the stream. The wild passion that had followed. The name he’d whispered—Lyria.
The guilt on his face after.
He knew. Even without his memory, some part of him must have understood what was happening between us. What his fire had started when it chose to save me.
And I’ve been too busy surviving to process any of it.
Too busy pretending eight days with a stranger doesn’t mean anything. That his absence doesn’t feel like losing a limb.
“Figure it out later,” I tell the empty room. My voice sounds hollow. “First, find him. Then worry about your feelings.”
Except my feelings are pretty damn clear at this point.
I’m falling for a dragon who doesn’t know his own name.
And I need to find him before this bond—whatever it is—kills me.
I pull on my boots with hands that shake. Check my messenger bag for my phone, make sure it has charge. The necessities of a conspiracy theorist turned dragon rescuer.
Outside, Nicolae and Andrei wait by the village edge, packs ready, their expressions serious in the dawn light.
“You look terrible,” Nicolae says with his usual bluntness.
“Yeah, well, you look like my ex-boyfriend after he discovered craft beer,” I shoot back. “We all have problems.”
Andrei shoots his brother a look. “Ignore him. He has no manners.”
“It’s fine.” I adjust my bag. “Let’s just go.”
We start down the mountain. The path is steep, rocky, and every jarring step sends fresh pain through my ribs and shoulder. I push through it. Don’t have a choice.
Nicolae chatters as we walk—broken English and Romanian, pointing out landmarks. Andrei stays quiet, watchful.
How is this my life? Two months ago, my biggest problem was keeping my TikTok views up. Now I’m hiking through Romanian mountains, held together by dragon magic that’s unraveling with every step.
Because the dragon who saved me got captured by the people I was running from.
This is fine. Everything is fine.
“Water?” Andrei offers his canteen.
“Thanks.” I drink, grateful. The cold helps clear my head.
We walk in silence for a while. The terrain shifts—pine giving way to scrub, then exposed rock.
“Those men… The Syndicate,” Andrei says eventually. “They have been here before.”
I look at him sharply. “Here? This area?”
“Yes. Two years ago, maybe three. They came with machines. Drilling equipment. Said they were scientists.” His skepticism is obvious. “They were not.”
“What were they doing?”
“Searching.” Nicolae jumps in. “For the old places. Where the fire-bloods used to sleep.”
Dragons. They’re talking about dragon lairs.
“Did they find anything?”
The brothers exchange one of their loaded glances.
“They left after six months,” Andrei says carefully. “We assumed they found nothing.”
“Or they found it and moved operations,” I counter.
Another glance between them.
“There is a research station on the route the vehicles took yesterday,” Nicolae offers. “We have thought it may be theirs. We can see it from the overlook.”
“Show me.”
We reach the overlook an hour later—a rocky outcropping with a clear view of the valley below.
And there it is.
A compound disguised as a research station. Prefab buildings in a grid. Satellite dishes on roofs. Generator hum audible even from here.
Perimeter fence. Security cameras. Guards at the main gate.
And parked outside—a string of vehicles. The same vehicles from yesterday’s convoy; I’d bet my high-speed uplink on it.
Recognition hits me hard. I’ve seen facilities exactly like this in security briefings back at Aurora’s headquarters. Facilities where the Syndicate tried to wake the Sleeping King. Same design. Same layout. Same MO.
K is in there. I know it.
Beyond reason, beyond logic, I can feel it.
The rage that floods through me is immediate. They have him locked up like a lab rat. Probably drugged. Definitely suppressed; those cuffs they used during the attack weren’t just for show.
“Too many guards,” Nicolae says quietly. “We cannot approach safely.”
He’s right. I count at least six visible. Probably more inside.
But I have a target now. Coordinates. Information Viktor can use.
“I need to get closer,” I hear myself say.
Both brothers look at me like I’ve lost my mind.
“Bad idea,” Andrei states flatly.
“I need details. Guard rotations. Entry points. Anything that’ll help the rescue team.” I’m already moving, using the rocks for cover. “You can stay here if you want.”
I hear them following. Of course they’re following.
We work our way around the perimeter, staying well back from the fence. I pull out my phone—battery at forty percent—and start taking pics.
Main gate. Service entrance on the east side that looks less protected.
Vehicle patterns. Supply truck comes and goes.
Building layout. Main structure with what looks like a fortified entrance. Probably where they’d keep prisoners.
I’m logging everything with the precision of someone who spent way too many hours researching conspiracy theories.
Turns out pattern recognition is useful for more than just proving yetis exist.
“Someone comes,” Andrei hisses.
We freeze.
A guard patrol of two men rounds the fence corner, heading for our position.
We press flat against the rocks. Stay silent. I hold my breath.
They pass within twenty feet. Close enough that I hear their conversation; American accents, casual. Something about bad coffee.
Normal. Human. Like they’re not guarding a facility where K is being held prisoner.
They move on.
I release a shuddering breath.
“We go,” Andrei whispers urgently. “Now.”