Page 1 of Born in Fire (Dragonblood Dynasty #2)

Chapter 1

J uno

I wake before my alarm, eyes snapping open to darkness. For a moment, I lie still, listening to the quiet hum of my apartment. My fingers find the small notebook and pen I keep beside my pillow—another night without dreams I can remember. A small victory.

The red digits of my clock read 5:17 a.m. Forty-three minutes until I should get up. I could try for more sleep, but my body has already decided.

Might as well get out of bed.

Sitting up, I run through my morning check: front door—chain and deadbolt; windows—locked; fire escape window—secure with the wooden dowel in the track.

My feet find their slippers as I pad to the kitchen. The herbs in my window boxes need attention—basil reaching eagerly toward the glass, mint threatening to overtake its neighbors. I touch the soil, checking moisture. Gardening was my mother’s talent, not mine, but I’ve kept these alive for eight months now. Another victory.

The kettle whistles as my phone vibrates on the counter.

Unknown number.

Shit.

My throat tightens as I silence it, sliding the phone face-down.

One, two, three, four—inhale.

One, two, three, four—exhale.

I catch myself picking at my cuticles and press my palms flat against the cool countertop instead.

“Not today,” I whisper to the empty kitchen. The sound of my own voice settles me.

The tea steeps while I get ready, choosing layers despite the forecast for mild weather—a tank top beneath a button-down beneath a cardigan. There’ll be an apron over all of it once I get to work. Each layer a small shield.

I twist my hair into a loose bun, apply minimal makeup. The woman in the mirror looks put-together, professional. She doesn’t look afraid.

Because I’m not afraid.

…I’m not!

I opt for the train to get to work today, preferring to mix it up and not follow a noticeable routine. It pulls up at the siding right on time, and I make my way in, reaching for a grab rail to steady myself. The train lurches forward, and I tighten my grip to avoid toppling forward.

“Miss… Miss, there’s a seat here next to me.”

I twist my head and look into the face of the man sitting beside where I’m standing. He looks safe. Friendly, even. But that doesn’t mean anything.

“Thanks.” I pinch out a smile. “I’m good here.” I remain standing. I prefer it. Better visibility, easier exit. I track reflections in windows, catalog faces without staring. When a tall blond man boards three stops in, my heart stutters—wrong jawline, wrong posture, but close enough. I switch cars at the next stop.

The morning light hits the glass facade of the office building as I approach. The Grind & Bean occupies the southeast corner of the lobby, windows on two sides. I arrive twenty minutes early, nodding to the security guard.

“Morning, Juno,” he says. I’ve only been here a couple of weeks, but he already recognizes me in spite of the throngs of execs who stream through here daily.

“Morning, Ed.” I manage a smile that feels almost natural.

Inside, I’m the first to arrive. The espresso machines wait like sleeping beasts. I begin my routine: wiping surfaces, checking stock, counting pastries. When Lisa arrives ten minutes later, relief loosens my shoulders. Female coworker today—one less thing to worry about.

“You’re early again,” she says, tying her apron.

“I like the quiet.” It’s not a lie, just not the whole truth.

By six-thirty, we’re open. The morning rush builds gradually—executives with early meetings, administrative staff preparing for their bosses’ arrivals. I lose myself in the rhythm of orders, the hiss of steam, and the precise movements of creating latte art.

A leaf pattern for the woman in the gray suit. A heart for the older gentleman who always tips generously. A rosetta for the marketing team ordering six drinks at once. My hands remain steady even when the line grows. I’m new to this place, which gives me a reason to keep my mind on my work instead of… anything else.

“That’s amazing,” a man in a blue tie says as I hand him his cappuccino with a perfect fern design. “You’re an artist.”

“Thank you.” I place his change on the counter rather than in his outstretched hand. “Next, please.”

The morning passes in a blur of orders. During a brief lull, I restock cups, my movements efficient. The café has become a sanctuary of sorts—structured, predictable, filled with people yet allowing me to maintain distance.

“Did you see the news about that plane crash in Colorado?” a customer asks his companion at a nearby table.

My hands freeze on the stack of cup sleeves. A roaring fills my ears, drowning out his next words. Suddenly, I’m standing in a funeral home, Tyler’s arm around my shoulders, his grip too tight as he whispers, “It’s just us now, Juno. You need me.”

“Juno?” Lisa’s voice pulls me back. “You okay? You went somewhere else for a minute.”

I blink, finding myself still in the café. “Fine. Just remembered something I forgot to do.”

She doesn’t push, and gratitude warms my chest. During our shared shifts over the past couple of weeks, Lisa has learned to read my signals. She steps in when male customers linger too long at the counter. She never asks why I check my phone with such trepidation. She doesn’t comment when I decline invitations to after-work drinks.

The mid-morning lull gives me a chance to sketch new cup designs in my small notebook. The pencil moves across the page, creating intricate patterns that might work in foam. Drawing has always cleared my mind, even when painting became too difficult after—

My phone vibrates in my pocket. Not a call this time, but a text from the front desk security.

Delivery for Juno Ashford at Grind & Bean Coffee.

My stomach drops.

“I need to check something,” I tell Lisa, walking on unsteady legs to the lobby.

The security desk has a vase of white lilies. My mother’s favorite. The card sits in a small envelope with my name written in familiar handwriting.

“Who delivered these?” I ask, voice tight.

“Florist courier,” Ed says. “Something wrong?”

“No, it’s fine.” Another lie. I take the vase with steady hands, though my insides tremble. Back in the staff room, I open the card.

Juno – Thinking of you as the anniversary approaches. They would be proud of who you’ve become. I miss you. We should talk. – T.

The lilies blur as tears threaten. He remembers the date of my parents’ death. Of course he does. He uses it like a key to a door I’ve tried to lock.

I find myself in the bathroom, card crumpled in my fist. My reflection shows dilated pupils, cheeks flushed. I’m picking at my cuticles again, the skin around my thumbnail already raw.

Breathe.

Focus on five things you can see.

The white sink. The soap dispenser. The paper towel holder. The gray tile floor.

My hands shake slightly.

Four things you can touch.

Cold water over my wrists. The rough paper towel. The smooth surface of my phone as I pull it out. The screen as I type a message to my therapist requesting an emergency session.

Three things you can hear.

Water running. Someone walking past the bathroom. My own breathing, steadying now.

Two things you can smell.

Hand soap. The lingering scent of coffee on my clothes.

One thing you can taste.

Mint gum I slip from my pocket to my mouth.

By the time I return to the café floor, I’ve composed myself. The lilies remain in the staff room, but I’ll dispose of them before leaving. Lisa glances at me questioningly, but I shake my head slightly.

Not now.

I throw myself into cleaning tasks—organizing the syrups by height, restocking napkins with mathematical precision, wiping down every surface until it gleams. The methodical work settles my nerves. I focus on each task with complete attention, blocking out everything else.

“Hey,” Lisa says during a quiet moment. She slides a small plate toward me with a blueberry scone—my favorite. “You should eat something.”

The simple kindness nearly undoes me. “Thanks,” I manage, breaking off a small piece.

“Bad news?” she asks, not looking directly at me, giving me space to decline the question.

I hesitate. “Just… someone from my past who won’t stay there.”

She nods, understanding in her eyes. “My sister went through something similar. It sucks.”

The understated response is perfect—acknowledgment without pity.

“Yeah. It does.” I take another bite, using it as an excuse to end the conversation. I’ve given her a rough outline of my story. No details. I plan to keep it that way.

The afternoon shift arrives, and I check the time. My shift ends in twenty minutes. As I gather my things in the staff room, I dump the lilies in the trash, card and all. Then I think better of it, retrieving the card as evidence for the growing folder I keep in case I need to take this to a lawyer.

“Ed,” I say as I approach the security desk, “would you mind walking me to the station?”

He doesn’t ask why, just nods and calls for his relief to watch the desk. Outside, I scan the street, the parked cars, the faces of passersby. No sign of Tyler, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t been here, watching.

“Thanks,” I tell Ed at the station entrance.

“Anytime, miss.” He tips his hat and turns back toward the building.

On the train home, I sit with my back to the wall, watching the doors at each stop. My phone buzzes with a response from my therapist—she can see me tomorrow. I’ll need to switch shifts, but my manager has been understanding about “appointments.”

It’s a relief when I get home. The door to my apartment is pristine white and well-maintained, just like the rest of the building. I’d been lucky to find this place when I moved here earlier this year. The move to Seattle had been a big one. Unnerving but necessary. It had taken me a couple of months to see that simply moving out wouldn’t be enough to keep Tyler at bay. But my landlord is great, and the place felt like home pretty quickly once I’d put my own touches on it.

Now, my apartment welcomes me with silence. It’s blissful after the bustle of the day. Not to mention the tension I’ve been carrying since the flowers arrived.

Damn him!

I wish he would just leave me alone. It’s been over a year, for God’s sake.

Heading to my bedroom, I shed my layers, hanging each piece carefully in the closet. Once in the bathroom, I stand under the shower until the hot water begins to cool, washing away the scent of coffee and anxiety.

Later, wrapped in my softest sweater and leggings, I set up my small easel by the window. The canvas I’ve been working on shows a coffee shop—not the Grind & Bean, but a place that exists only in my imagination. The customers have no faces, just suggestions of forms enjoying their drinks. In the corner, a woman with sandy hair works behind the counter. She looks confident, at ease.

My brush moves with sure strokes, adding depth to the scene. Tonight I paint the woman’s face in greater detail—a slight smile, eyes clear and unafraid. It’s me, but not quite me. Not yet. But maybe someday.

The anniversary is two days away. Tyler knows this, uses it as a weapon. But as I paint, I remind myself that my grief belongs to me, not him. My parents—their lives and their deaths—are my history to honor.

I add more light to the painting, streaming through imaginary windows. Tomorrow will bring its own challenges, but tonight, in this moment, my brush creates the world I want to inhabit. A world where I serve coffee to faceless strangers without scanning for threats. A world where lilies are just flowers, not warnings.

My phone remains silent for the rest of the evening. A small mercy. As I clean my brushes, I glance at the herbs on my windowsill—still growing, still reaching for light despite being cut back time and again.

“Look at us,” I whisper to the resilient plants. “Still here. Still safe.”

I just pray that it stays that way.