Page 15 of Born in Fire (Dragonblood Dynasty #2)

Chapter 15

J uno

I can’t stop moving. Since Dorian left, I’ve paced my apartment like a caged animal, my thoughts spinning in chaotic loops. Thank God it’s my day off because there’s no way I could focus on work now. Grounding techniques that normally work—counting objects in the room, naming sensations, deep breathing—slide off my anxiety like water on glass.

Glowing eyes. Impossible strength. Skin that shifted beneath my fingertips, like… scales?

My hands shake as I pour myself a third cup of chamomile tea I won’t drink. The mug clatters against the counter, spilling hot liquid over my fingers. I barely feel it.

“This isn’t happening,” I whisper to my empty apartment. “People don’t have glowing eyes or scale-like skin. That’s not a thing.”

Yet I saw it. Felt it. The memory of Dorian moving with inhuman speed to confront Tyler, the heat radiating from his body when he carried me upstairs, the strange texture of his skin during our most intimate moments—all of it crystal clear in my mind.

Red flags. So many red flags.

My therapist’s voice swirls in my head: “Trust what you observe, not what you’re told.”

I observed the impossible.

My phone lights up on the coffee table, Dorian’s name flashing on the screen. My heart lurches painfully against my ribs. For a moment, I consider letting it go to voicemail. What could he possibly say that would make any of this make sense?

But clarity requires communication. That’s another therapy lesson.

I answer on the fourth ring, my voice steadier than I feel. “Hello.”

“Juno.” The relief in his voice is tangible, as if he feared I might never answer. “Are you okay?”

“I’m processing.” I sit on the edge of the couch, perched like I might need to flee at any moment. “I meant what I said earlier. I need space, Dorian.”

“I know.” He pauses, and I hear him take a deep breath. “I just needed to make sure you were safe after what happened with Tyler.”

His voice deepens slightly when he mentions Tyler’s name, something guttural entering his tone. The sound sends an odd shiver down my spine—not entirely from fear.

“I’m fine. The security system is working.” I glance at the new cameras and motion sensors installed just days ago. “It’s not Tyler I’m concerned about right now.”

The silence stretches between us as he processes that. The implied meaning is clear: I’m not concerned about Tyler; I’m concerned about him .

“Have you noticed anything unusual online?” he asks abruptly. “Social media, news sites, anything?”

The question is so incongruous that it momentarily derails my thoughts.

“What? No. I haven’t been checking social media. That’s hardly my priority right now.”

“Right. Of course.” He sounds relieved, which makes no sense.

“Dorian, we need to talk about what happened. What I saw.”

“I know.” His voice is tight. “It’s complicated.”

“Everything’s complicated.” I stand again, unable to remain still. “But some things are also simple. Like honesty. Like trust.”

I pace to the window, looking out at the street below. My apartment feels simultaneously too small and too exposed. It feels like the walls themselves might be listening.

“I want to explain something to you,” I say finally, coming to a decision. He came to my defense, after all. I owe him some kind of explanation. “About me. About why what happened is… particularly difficult for me to process.”

“I’m listening.” The gentleness in his voice nearly breaks my resolve.

I take a deep breath, steeling myself. This isn’t a story I share easily, but context matters now.

“When my parents died, I was devastated. They were everything to me—my only family, my best friends.” My voice wavers slightly. “I was completely alone for the first time in my life, drowning in grief and practical matters—funeral arrangements, their estate, their house full of memories I couldn’t bear to face.”

I pause, gathering strength for what comes next.

“That’s when Tyler stepped in. He was charming, attentive, seemingly perfect. He brought me food when I forgot to eat. He helped with paperwork. He sent flowers every day—lilies, my mother’s favorite.” The memory of those same lilies at my door makes me shudder. “He told me I was beautiful, strong, amazing—all while I was at my absolute worst. It felt like a miracle.”

Dorian remains silent, listening.

“We moved in together after three months. It seemed fast, but he was so concerned about me being alone in my grief. Said he couldn’t bear the thought of me crying by myself at night.” I laugh bitterly. “By six months, I barely spoke to any of my friends. There was always some reason we couldn’t see them—they were ‘using’ me or ‘disrespecting’ our relationship, or he’d create a conflict that made spending time with them so stressful that I stopped trying.”

My fingers find my cuticles, picking unconsciously until I catch myself and press my palm flat against the window glass.

“He monitored my phone. Checked my emails. Questioned every male name that appeared in my contacts. All from a place of ‘concern,’ of course.” The words flow easier now, clinical and detached. “Then other behaviors started. He criticized my clothes, my interests, my art. Said nobody made a living out of art. Then made it impossible for me to actually create anything.”

I move away from the window, needing to keep moving as I speak.

“The first time he hit me was fourteen months in. An argument about a male colleague who texted me about a shift change. He apologized immediately, cried, bought me expensive gifts. Said it would never happen again. And I believed him because I needed to. Because I had nowhere else to go, no one else to turn to. He’d made sure of that.”

My hand unconsciously touches my cheekbone, where the bruise had bloomed like a dark flower.

“The second time was three months later. That’s when I ended up in hospital with a concussion and fractured ribs. I knew then it would never stop. That it would only escalate.” My voice grows stronger, the survivor speaking rather than the victim. “I left while he was at work. Took only what I could carry. Started over with nothing but the certainty that I’d rather be alone forever than spend another day with someone who claimed to love me while systematically destroying me.”

I stop pacing, standing in the center of my apartment—the space I’ve built as my sanctuary after escaping.

“So when I see someone move with impossible speed and strength, when I witness rage that makes eyes glow and skin change, when I feel power that could easily harm me… it triggers every alarm system I’ve built to protect myself.”

The silence that follows feels weighted with his reaction.

“Juno,” he finally says, his voice raw. “I would never hurt you. What you saw—what you felt—it wasn’t rage directed at you. It was protection.”

“Tyler said he was protecting me too. From friends who ‘didn’t have my best interests at heart.’ From my own ‘self-destructive tendencies.’” I shake my head, though he can’t see it. “The line between protection and control is razor-thin.”

“I’m not Tyler.” The words come out almost as a growl.

“No, you’re not,” I agree. “Tyler was just a man. You’re… something else. What the hell did I see, Dorian?”

Another heavy silence before he speaks again.

“There are things about my family—about me—that I can’t fully explain,” he says carefully. “Not because I don’t want to, but because it is… forbidden.”

Yeah, right.

“More secrets.” I sit on the couch again, suddenly exhausted. “More half-truths.”

“Not by choice.”

“It’s always by choice, Dorian.” I press my fingers to my temples, where a headache is forming. “Every time you choose not to tell me something, that’s a decision you’re making. And after Tyler, I promised myself I’d never again accept partial information from someone who claims to care about me.”

“I do care about you.” The raw honesty in his voice makes my chest ache. “More than I can explain. More than makes, sense given how little time we’ve known each other.”

“Then help me understand what I saw. What I felt. No more evasions.”

I hear him take another deep breath. “My family has… genetic differences. Traits that manifest under certain conditions—stress, danger, strong emotion. The temperature regulation, the physical capabilities, the eyes—all expressions of those traits.”

“You mean like a ‘warrior gene’?” I scoff.

“Something like that.” He sounds cagey.

“That’s not an explanation,” I say flatly. “That’s a carefully worded non-answer.”

“It’s all I can give you right now.” Frustration edges his tone. “There are others involved, Juno. Not just me. I can’t unilaterally decide to reveal everything.”

“Then we have a problem.” I stand again, my decision crystallizing. “Because I can’t—I won’t—get involved with someone who can’t be honest with me. Not after what I’ve been through.”

“You’re comparing me to your abuser.” The hurt in his voice is evident.

“No, I’m applying lessons I learned at great personal cost.” I run a hand through my hair, trying to organize my thoughts. “Look, I felt something with you that I’ve never felt before. A connection that seemed to override all my careful defenses. And that terrifies me almost as much as what I saw in you.”

“Juno—”

“Let me finish.” My voice grows stronger. “I spent months rebuilding myself after Tyler. Learning to trust my instincts again. Creating boundaries. And in the blink of an eye, you’ve somehow slipped past every wall I constructed. That’s not normal, Dorian. None of this is normal.”

“No,” he agrees softly. “It’s not.”

“So I need time. And space. And eventually, if we’re going to have any kind of relationship, I need complete honesty. Not bullshit wrapped in vague explanations about ‘family traits’ or ‘genetic differences.’ Real answers about what you are and what’s happening between us.”

The line goes quiet except for his breathing, which sounds slightly ragged, as if he’s physically restraining himself.

“And if I can’t give you those answers right now?” he finally asks.

“Then we can’t move forward.” The words hurt to say, but I know they’re right. “I won’t compromise on this, Dorian. Not even for whatever this is between us.”

“I understand.” His voice is quiet, resigned. “For what it’s worth, I wish I could tell you everything. And I hope someday I can.”

“I hope so too.” My throat tightens. “But until then…”

“You need space.”

“Yes.”

Another silence, this one feels final.

“Will you at least let me know if Tyler contacts you again?” he asks. “Or if you feel threatened?”

The concern in his voice is genuine, which makes this harder. “Yes. I’ll do that.”

“Thank you.” He pauses. “Goodbye, Juno.”

“Goodbye, Dorian.”

I end the call before I can change my mind, ignoring the ache in my chest. For a long moment, I stare at the phone in my hand, then deliberately turn it off and place it face-down on the coffee table.

Moving to my easel, I look at the sketch of Dorian I started the day we met. I’ve added to it since then, capturing more details—the precise angle of his jaw, the focus in his eyes, the dragon tattoos on his arms that now seem less decorative and more… descriptive.

With deliberate movements, I cover the sketch with a clean sheet, hiding it from view. Then I walk to my bedroom and find the shirt I slept in last night—the one that still carries his scent—placing it in the hamper beneath other clothes.

Small actions. Symbolic gestures.

My apartment feels emptier than it did before I met him, the silence more profound. But as I make myself a fresh cup of tea—one I will actually drink this time—I recognize the feeling settling over me. Not just sadness or longing, though those are there too.

Relief.

Relief that I recognized the warning signs, that I shared my needs, that I chose self-protection over the insane pull of whatever this is between us. That I honored the woman I’ve fought to become.

Tyler almost destroyed me once. I won’t let anyone do it again, no matter how compelling the attraction or how genuine the connection feels.

It will hurt. But I’ve survived worse.

I am not the broken girl Tyler left behind. I am not defined by what’s been done to me or by what I’ve lost.

I am defined by what I choose. And tonight, I choose myself.