CHAPTER 15

EMBER

T he cave still smells like smoke and sex. I stretch like a cat in sunlight, slow and indulgent, and catch my reflection in a slick patch of rock. My hair’s a mess, my lips are swollen, and I grin at the sight. Damn right I look wrecked. I earned that look.

Someone should really market that as a candle—'Apocalypse Afterglow,' maybe. I should be embarrassed by how good that scent makes me feel—instead, I roll my shoulders back and grin. That smell? That’s power. That’s mine. I earned it, I survived it, and I enjoyed every molten, earth-shattering second. For once, I don’t feel like I’m chasing fire—I am it. And gods help anyone who tries to put me out.

The air is cool as dawn breaks, filtered soft through the moss-choked mouth of the cave. My muscles ache in the best way—used, stretched, satisfied—and I’m draped half over Dax like some lazy jungle cat who just conquered her mate. Because I did. And hell yes, I’m claiming it. There’s power in this moment. Sensual, slow-burning, and thoroughly mine. For once, I don’t feel like I’m trying to keep up. I feel like the one setting the pace.

His arm is heavy around my waist, possessive even in sleep. One scarred hand sprawls across my hip like he owns it. Maybe he does. The fact that I don’t mind that thought should probably worry me—but it doesn’t. Not when his touch still hums under my skin like an echo. Not when his presence wraps around me like protection laced with danger. I should pull away. Should remind myself I don't need anyone to anchor me. But gods, it feels good to let go—for just this moment—and know someone else is strong enough to hold me.

We dress in silence, the heat between us simmering but different now. Less frantic. More dangerous. Like an ember buried in ash, waiting for a breath to reignite. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t speak much, either. Just keeps casting glances my way like he’s waiting for me to bolt. Maybe I used to. But not this time. I’ve faced monsters. Danced with fire. And tasted power I didn’t know I wanted. I’m not going anywhere. Not yet. Not until I decide the terms.

Kade meets us at the edge of the ridge just as the sun begins to climb. His expression says he’s not going to ask questions, and I’m grateful for that. Without a word, he hands Dax the keys to the chopper and slides behind the wheel of the SUV we used to get out here.

"You good to fly?" Kade asks, with a glance between us that says he already knows the answer.

"Yeah," Dax says, low and firm. "Thanks."

We climb into the chopper, and I let the rush of air and the thrum of the rotors fill the silence. The trip back to Blackstrike’s base takes less than an hour, but it stretches like forever. Dax pilots with practiced ease, but his jaw is tight, and he doesn’t look at me once. I don’t push. Not yet. My body still hums from what we shared, but my brain’s already sprinting ahead—spirals, Malek, what comes next.

By the time we touch down at Blackstrike’s base—tucked deep in the canyon, part hangar, part ancient volcanic shrine— the heat between us has cooled to something tense and quiet. Watchful. Waiting.

Dax doesn’t say much. Just jerks his head towards the back and says, “There’s a spare room with a shower. It’s stocked with all you’ll need. Get some rest.”

Then he’s gone, footsteps fading into stone. I follow his directions, finding the room easily. The walls are dark, volcanic rock—older than memory, the kind of place that holds its secrets close.

I strip and step into the shower, letting the hot water chase the chill from my bones. Steam curls around me, thick as the thoughts in my head. The heat soothes, but it doesn't clear the buzz under my skin. Every inch of me feels sensitized, electric—like the air before lightning strikes. I towel off slowly, absently, and then something catches my eye. I glance toward the mirror, the steam sliding away just enough for a clear view.

And I freeze.The mark is still there—it wasn’t my imagination. Low on my left shoulder, just where the neck meets the curve of muscle. Faint. Glowing. Shaped like a spiral, like flame trying to etch a memory into skin. It pulses softly, a whisper of heat that makes my skin prickle. Not quite a burn. Not quite a bruise. But it’s alive—throbbing with a residual power that feels foreign and yet intimately known. My breath catches. The air thickens around me, like I’ve just stepped into a room I’m not supposed to be in.

The heat isn’t mine. Not fully. But part of it... part of it feels like a claim. Like something Dax left behind—not by accident, but by instinct. A brand without fire. A promise without words. My fingers drift to the edge of the spiral, and even the gentlest touch makes it thrum beneath my skin. Power. Connection. Danger.

The mark pulses again, syncing with my heartbeat, like it's fusing to more than just flesh. It’s intimate in a way that makes my breath hitch, terrifying and seductive all at once. Part of me wants to cover it up. The other part wants to show it off like war paint. Because this isn’t just a brand—it’s a warning. A challenge. And maybe, deep down, a vow.

And gods help me, it doesn’t scare me. It makes me feel... powerful.

“Well, that’s new,” I mutter, poking at it gently. “Should’ve come with a user manual—or at least a warning label.” It hums under my touch, like it remembers exactly who put it there—and why. It’s intimate, almost smug, like a love bite left by wildfire. "Thanks for the magical hickey, dragon boy," I add under my breath, rolling my eyes at my reflection even as a thrill coils low in my stomach.

Down in the hangar, the rest of the unit is gathered—Kade, Rafe, and a couple I haven’t met yet. All broody, lethal-looking men with the kind of shoulders that say 'I throw firetrucks for fun' and eyes that say 'I've seen too much.'

"So," I say, crossing my arms and raising an eyebrow, "you all breathe fire, or is that just a Dax thing?"

Kade snorts. Rafe grins without humor. One of the others chokes on his protein bar.

Dax appears behind me, all heat and quiet command. "Don’t encourage her."

I flash a smile. "But it’s so easy."

Later that night, I sleep in Dax’s bed. Alone. He offered the space like it was sacred, and weirdly, it feels that way—like slipping into a heartbeat that isn’t mine but still knows my rhythm. The sheets still smell like him—smoke and cedar and something darker, addictive. I lie there for a while, tracing the spiral mark on my shoulder with idle fingers, trying to tell myself it’s just a burn.

But it’s not. Not really. It’s a tether. A promise. Maybe a warning. I'm not sure, but I am sure I want to find out.

Sleep doesn’t come easy, but when it does, it drags me under hard—and I dream. If they’re not nightmares, they’re close enough.

Malek. Dennis. They’re the same. His face flickers between man and dragon—twisting and morphing like smoke in the wind. One second, it's the calm, calculating man with a clipboard and charm; the next, it’s scales and fire and hunger with nothing human left. His eyes are cold and empty in both forms, like he sees the world as a pile of kindling waiting to be lit.

The dream yanks me back through memories I didn’t know I’d filed away—charred forests, spiral symbols burned into stone and bark, fire lines too precise to be accidents. Every clue I brushed aside as impossible now flashes with brutal clarity. A trail of ash leading straight to him.

I try to move in the dream, to run or fight, but my body is frozen in place. Watching. And then his dragon head turns toward me—massive, horned, eyes glowing—and says my name.

I wake gasping, drenched in sweat, heart hammering against my ribs like it’s trying to break free. The room is dark, quiet—too quiet. Every shadow feels sharper, closer, like something is watching. My fingers fly to my shoulder, and the spiral burns under my touch, pulsing like a warning siren embedded in my skin. It’s not just a dream echo—it’s real, searing through the memory and anchoring me to it. The line between nightmare and prophecy is blurring fast, and my gut tells me it’s already too late to pretend otherwise.

When I wake, I’m already moving—heart still hammering, adrenaline from the dream scraping through my veins. I pull on the nearest clean clothes I can find, my hands shaking slightly as I shoulder through the corridors of Blackstrike’s base. My bare feet slap against the cool stone floors, the echo sharp and quick like a warning bell.

I find Dax in the strategy room, hunched over satellite maps and coded overlays, the pale glow from the monitors painting harsh angles on his face. He looks up the second I step in, instantly alert—like he was already expecting me.

My hands curl into fists before I even realize it, the pieces snapping together like dry twigs in flame. The dreams. The spiral. The way I’d discovered Price had watched me back in D.C.

"Dennis Price is Malek, isn’t he?" I already know the answer. It’s written all over Dax’s face, in the way his eyes darken, and his jaw tightens. But I need to hear it. Out loud. From him.

His jaw flexes, eyes narrowing like he’s been bracing for this exact moment. He watches me like he already knows I’ve figured it out—and maybe he’s relieved. Or maybe he’s wondering if this is the part where I bolt. I don’t. Not this time. He watches me for a long beat, reading the resolve in my stance, the fire in my voice. Then he nods slowly, the truth heavy between us. "Yes."

I cross my arms. "And you were going to tell me when? After he tried to flambé me again?"

"I wanted to be sure," he says, voice rough. "And I wanted you to choose what came next without being forced."

I pace, my skin prickling. "He knew me. Back in D.C., he followed my reports. Met with me. He was looking for weak points."

Dax stands, slow and deliberate. "He was looking for a bond either for himself or for someone within the unit. When he realized the bond was between us, he decided to use you to bait me, to claim you against your will or maybe both."

My blood runs cold. The memory of the aerial battle between Dax and Malek flashes behind my eyes—dragons colliding like thunder in the sky, fire raining down in arcs too bright to look at, too close to dodge.

I remember the heat on my face, the way the ground shook beneath my boots, and the helpless terror of knowing I was caught between forces that defied everything I understood. I’d never felt so human. So small. So breakable. And yet I couldn’t look away. clashing in the sky, teeth and claws and fire lighting up the heavens. It wasn’t just some fantastical skirmish. It was war.

If Malek’s willing to take on Dax mid-flight, in broad daylight, then what the hell else is he willing to do? I saw what Dax looked like after. The damage. The rage. The barely contained fury. And now I know that fight was personal.

"Why me?" I ask.

"Because you’re strong. Smart. Connected. And because he hasn’t been able to scare you off or keep you from pursuing the truth. You challenged him. He sees you as a threat—or a tool. Either way, you matter to him now."

I stare at the maps, my thoughts running wild. "I’ve been circling a dragon this whole time."

Dax moves to my side. "You weren’t the only one."

A long beat of silence stretches between us. It’s heavy, not with discomfort, but with everything we’re not saying—yet. I can feel his eyes on me, measuring the weight of what I just asked. My heart thunders in my chest, but I hold his gaze. I need to know he believes I can handle this—that I’m more than just something to protect. That I’m ready to fight.

"If I were a dragon," I whisper, "could I shift and fight him? For real?"

His eyes burn into me. "To shift, you’d have to bond. With me. It’s not reversible. It’s not safe."

"But I’d be stronger. Harder to kill."

He nods once. "Yes."

I meet his gaze, something fierce settling into my chest. "Then maybe it’s time to stop running. And start hunting."

Dax's voice is low, dark, and certain. "Agreed.”