Chapter One
The problem with waking up next to a man like Bren...? You forget why you’re supposed to leave.
Not because he’s soft, he’s anything but. Bren smells of smoke, scorched iron, and the kind of heat that melts good judgment.
And that’s a damn problem.
Especially here in the Outerlands, where magic’s outlawed, your neighbours would trade you for half a ration, and dragons don’t just circle the northern peaks anymore, they drift closer every day.
I reach for my watch.
One glance.
Shit.
I’m late.
The patrol shift changes in forty minutes, and if I’m not across the Ravine and over the Innerland wall by then I won’t just lose my window—I’ll be seen. And if I’m seen, I’m dead.
I shift under the blanket, the rough wool scratches my legs as I try to calculate the alley turns and how long the traders will stay in the west market.
One hour, maybe less. That’s all the time I have to pick up the Spice run and get the Ash-dried Dragon Scale.
It’s the only day the traders come through this month, and Kael made it clear, if I don’t bring back what I owe, he’ll take payment in blood.
Mine.
But the morning air beyond the window is cold—Ashvale autumns always are—and the warmth of Bren’s body clings to my skin like temptation. The dangerous kind. The kind that doesn’t just seduce, it stalls.
Just one more minute.
That’s all it ever is.
From the bed I scan the room, locating where my clothes ended up after last night’s antics.
It’s familiar, too familiar. I’ve spent way too many nights here.
.. more than I want to admit. Rough-hewn wooden walls, a single shelf crowded with battered books, and a window that barely keeps the coming winter chill out.
It’s surprisingly clean for a bachelor though, and thank the stars he's still single, because yesterday was my twenty-first birthday, and yeah, I should’ve known better, but Bren made one hell of a gift.
Beside me, his fingers start to drift lazily over my hip, half-asleep, half-hunting.
That kind of unconscious possessiveness men get after a long night and a good fuck.
He shifts, just slightly—breath catching, grip tightening—like part of him already knows I’m thinking of leaving. Knows I’m always thinking of leaving.
I should pull away. I should get moving. But I don’t.
Because honestly?
I kind of like it.
“Mmm,” he rumbles as his hand slides over the swell of my breast, voice rough and frayed from too much wine last night. “You’re awake.”
Sliding over, I straddle him, my curls falling around us like a crimson veil, messy from sleep and sex. Beneath me, his legs part without hesitation, hands warm and rough against my skin as they settle on my thighs, like he’s trying to anchor me in place.
“Another round already?” Bren murmurs, eyes cracking open just as that cocky grin tugs at his mouth.
My lips curl as I glance down. He’s already hard. Poor guy, ever the hopeful optimist.
Then his gaze shifts, dragging over me, tracing the bare line of my skin with quiet, hopeful hunger, until our eyes meet.
Light brown, warm and safe. His hair matches, cropped close and always neat, like someone who doesn’t have time for vanity.
And that face, all those soft angles over strong bone.
More boy next door than dark and brooding.
The kind that makes old ladies smile and barmaids forget to charge him.
Too bad I know better.
“I’ll admit... while your stamina’s impressive…” I pause, leaning in to brush my mouth against the shell of his ear. “If only your personality could keep up.”
His grip on my thighs tightens as he throws his head back and laughs—unbothered, amused, like he lives for this kind of shit.
And instead of backing off, his fingers just slide higher, lazy and shameless.
But we’ve known each other since we were kids, which means I know exactly how to push his buttons.
I let him think he’s got me, just for one heartbeat. Just long enough to watch the heat spark in his eyes. Then I shift, fast and fluid, twisting off the bed in one clean motion. And for once, I don’t trip over my own damn feet. By the time he blinks, I’m already across the room.
Behind me, Bren groans. “No. No, no, don’t you dare Lyra, don’t leave me here like this.” His grin is all sin and stubble, but his voice goes boyish, playfully pleading. “We can make it quick?”
I toss him a wicked smile. “You’ve got two hands, knock yourself out.”
He’s good in bed, confident yet gentle and maddeningly skilled at finding all the right places. But that’s all he is, a distraction with expert fingers and a dangerous body.
And right now, I can’t afford distractions.
Not today, not when I’ve got a warded border to cross—one wrong move and I’m dead.
I’ve got Spice to pick up, traders to catch before they vanish, and Ash-dried Dragon Scale to steal from under their noses, without losing mine.
All while pretending the magic under my skin isn’t about to blow a hole through me.
The familiar pressure's been building all night.
And it wants out.
I grab my pack, fingers skimming across the outside, checking its weight and contents.
Good, everything’s still where it should be.
Then I snatch my trousers from where they’re half-draped over Bren’s mirror, nearly knocking the damn thing over in the process, and catch him watching me in the reflection.
Sheets slung low on his hips, drawing the eye to the deep V of muscle that disappears beneath. “Spice run?” he asks, eyes narrowing on me.
I zip up. “What else?”
“Over the border again? Lyra, the patrols are doubling. People are disappearing. There’s even talk of dragons breaching the Innerland Veils… The Citadel’s spooked.”
I try to shrug it off, but it doesn’t land right. “They haven’t caught me yet...”
“Yet?” he echoes, this time his voice has teeth and my stomach knots.
I’m not stupid, I know he’s right, and it’s only a matter of time. And when that happens... A shiver traces down my spine before I can stop it, well... let's just say I’d rather not think about that right now.
“It’s today or never.” I look back at him. “You know that.”
Bren shifts from the bed, muttering something under his breath about how I never listen, but a second later he’s behind me. Arms slipping around my waist, rough palms brushing my stomach. Every inch of him is pressed up against me, all heat and muscle wound tight.
“You sure?” he asks. “Could just crawl back into bed.” His fingers pause just beneath my breasts as our eyes meet in the mirror and the smile that follows is pure trouble. “Those eyes,” he murmurs, bending down just enough to brush a kiss to my bare shoulder. “Mmm. Green like witch-fire.”
Then his mouth trails up the curve of my neck, hot breath chasing heat across my skin. A shiver slips down my spine, and my breath catches before I can stop it.
But I push it down, because I know exactly what he’s doing—trying to keep me here, stop me from going, playing my weak spots against me like weapons.
“That fiery red hair against all that porcelain skin…” he murmurs, lips brushing my ear. I can hear the grin in his voice, smug and unbothered, clearly enjoying himself. A beat, then, with zero shame: “You know you’re a walking wet dream.”
God, is he predictable.
“Classic.” I snort, rolling my eyes. “No wonder you’re still single.”
I give him a half-hearted shove, more playful than pointed. He just laughs, stumbles back on to the mattress, lacing his hands behind his head like it’s all part of his game.
“Still worth a try…” Grin locked in place.
I don’t even bother responding. Just turn back to the mirror, roll my eyes one last time, and tug on my top before grabbing my jacket from the hook by the door. It’s dusty, patched beyond counting, hand-stitched across a torn shoulder, not pretty, but it’s warm, and mine.
Growing up in the Outerlands teaches you things. How to make do. How to fix what breaks, even if it’s you.
Lastly, I gather my thick red curls and twist them into a loose knot at the back of my head, quick and practised. Strands still slip free to frame my face, but it'll hold.
Behind me, Bren’s voice softens. “You know... I do worry about you. Going over the border so often.”
I pause, just for a second. It’s sweet, he means well. And yeah, part of me appreciates it. That someone cares enough to say it, that someone sees me. But that’s also the problem, isn’t it?
Exhaling, I glance at him in the mirror, and his eyes—those goddamn warm, safe eyes—are looking right through me. But that’s not what this is. That’s not what we are.
“Uh-uh. No. We don’t do this. We don’t have these kinds of conversations.” I reply, sliding my dagger into its sheath with a soft scrape.
His brow lifts, mouth parting like he’s about to push “But what if I—”
Dragon sirens scream through the room, sharp and rising, a hollow wail that scrapes the spine and curdles the air. It rolls over the rooftops in waves, loud enough to wake the dead. Every window in Bren's room rattles with the promise of fire.
“Shit.” He's on his feet in seconds, already pulling on his pants.
“Northern Peaks?” I ask, frowning. “Again?”
He nods, jaw tight. “Second time this month.”
I glance at the window, unease coiling in my gut.
“Thank fuck I haven’t been Reassigned,” he mutters while shoving on a boot, “still on bucket duty. Just putting out flames, not holding off the damn dragons.”
This isn’t normal.
They used to stay beyond the peaks, but lately they’ve been drifting into Ashvale. Skimming the outskirts, causing just enough damage to rattle everyone. Like they’re testing something. Or aiming for specific spots.
I swallow hard. If the Citadel just extended its Veils just a few clicks east, maybe we’d stand a chance. But no, got to keep the Innerlands nice and cozy. While out here? We’re left to burn.