Page 29 of Born in Fire (Dragonblood Dynasty #2)

Chapter 29

D orian

Time stands still. My vision tunnels. The world compresses to a single point—her face, confused and pale but alive . Fucking alive .

It’s her. My God, it’s her!

I can’t move. Can’t draw breath. My dragon roars inside me, clawing to break free, to reach her. But my human half is paralyzed, terrified that if I blink, she’ll vanish like smoke.

Her eyes find mine across the distance.

Something breaks inside me.

I move, cutting through the crowd like they’re not even there. Bodies blur past. Someone shouts. I don’t care. Nothing matters except closing the distance between us.

Ten feet. Five. Two.

I stop, trembling. She’s real. Standing there. Breathing. Her scent—rosemary and something new, something burning—fills my lungs.

“Juno?” My voice cracks.

She stares at me, eyes wide. “Juno,” she repeats blankly.

“My God… It’s you.” I can’t believe it, certain that I’m hallucinating.

“Yes,” she says. “I’m Juno.” Recognition flickers, but it’s swimming in confusion. “I… know you.”

Not a question. A statement. But hesitant, like she’s testing the words.

Why wouldn’t she know me?

My hands rise of their own accord, hovering inches from her face. Afraid to touch. Afraid she’ll dissolve under my fingers.

“You’re real,” I whisper. “You’re here.”

I touch her cheek. Warm skin. Solid. Real .

Something inside me shatters completely.

I pull her against me, crushing her to my chest, burying my face in her hair. My body shakes with emotions I can’t name. Relief. Disbelief. Rage at whatever kept her from me. Joy so fierce it burns.

“I don’t understand,” she murmurs against my chest. “There was fire. So much fire.”

I pull back just enough to see her face, my hands framing her cheeks. “What happened? Where have you been?”

Her eyes—still blue, but different, lighter, like quicksilver—search mine. “I woke up in ash. A logger found me. I was… naked. In the forest.” Her words come in broken fragments.

There’s movement behind me.

“Dorian.” Caleb’s voice. I’d know it anywhere. But I don’t look away from Juno. Can’t.

“Dorian,” he says again, closer now. Too close. My dragon bristles, not wanting him near her. “Is that—?”

“Yes.” One word. All I can manage.

I sense Elena beside him, her sharp intake of breath telling me she recognizes Juno, too. The plaza has grown quiet, curious onlookers gathering at a respectful distance. Security hovering uncertainly.

I shift, positioning myself between Juno and the world, one arm still around her shoulders. She leans into me instinctively, though confusion still clouds her eyes.

“This isn’t possible,” Caleb says quietly, for dragon ears only. “We burned her body.”

“Tell that to her,” I growl. I regret my words when Juno makes a small, alarmed sound. I brush my lips over the top of her head, keeping her tucked against me. “It’s okay,” I murmur. “You’re okay.”

Elena steps forward, her gaze clinical but kind. “Juno? What happened?”

Juno studies her face. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

It’s rapidly sinking in that there’s something going on with her. She’s here with me, but not the way she used to be. Something has changed significantly. But I don’t give a fuck. However she’s changed, she’s still here. That’s all that matters.

“We need to get her out of here,” Caleb murmurs, eyeing the growing crowd. “This is too public.”

He’s right. But the thought of letting go of her, even for a second—

“I’m taking her home,” I say. Not a request.

Caleb nods. “We’ll follow later. I’ll handle the publicity angle. Say it was a stunt for the new tech launch.”

I don’t care what he tells them. I guide Juno toward the parking garage, my arm tight around her waist. She’s unsteady on her feet, exhaustion evident in every step.

“Gone,” she whispers suddenly. “He’s gone.”

I freeze. “What?”

“Back there.” Her voice shakes as she looks back over her shoulder. “There was fire, light, and then nothing.”

Is she still afraid of what happened during the attack? Her expression is stricken. I wonder how many of those horrifying moments are embedded in her mind. Does she remember her own death? The thought makes me shudder.

She can’t be dead. She’s here.

“It’s okay,” I tell her, resuming our walk to the car, needing to get her away from this place that already took her from me once. “It’s all over now. They’re gone. The fire is gone. You’re safe now.”

Her eyes widen. “Safe?”

“Yes, Juno.” I open the passenger door of my Jaguar. “No one will hurt you again. I promise.” It’s not an empty promise. I’ll die before I let anything happen to her again.

She slides in, looking small against the leather. I close the door and circle to the driver’s side, my hands shaking as I grip the wheel.

“Where are we going?” she asks as I pull out of the garage, driving with more caution than usual. I have precious cargo.

“Home,” I say. “My place.”

She nods like this makes perfect sense, though nothing else does. Her fingers trace patterns on the window as the city blurs past. Occasionally, she jerks, eyes widening at something only she can see.

“What do you remember?” I ask, keeping my voice gentle. “About before?”

She frowns. “Coffee. I made coffee.” A pause. “And you. Your face. Your voice.” Her hand reaches out, hesitant, then touches my arm. “This is right.”

Something fierce and protective surges through me. “Yes. It is right.” It doesn’t matter to me how many alarm bells should be going off. How I should be asking how any of this could be possible. This is right.

Twenty minutes later, I’m guiding her into my apartment. Her eyes track over exposed brick walls, the massive windows, the eclectic mix of furniture and art. She pauses at a dragon sculpture on the coffee table, fingers hovering over its wings.

“Beautiful,” she murmurs.

I can’t take my eyes off her. “Yes.”

She sways suddenly, exhaustion catching up. I’m at her side instantly, steadying her. My hands grip her shoulders, feeling how delicate she is beneath my fingers. Fragile, yet somehow stronger than she looks. Her skin radiates warmth through the thin fabric of her shirt, and I resist the urge to pull her closer.

“Easy there,” I murmur. Something protective and unfamiliar stirs in my chest as I watch her eyelids flutter with fatigue. “You need rest,” I say. “And clean clothes.”

She looks down at the hospital scrubs. “These aren’t mine.”

“No.” I guide her toward the bathroom. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

The massive claw-foot tub fills quickly. Steam rises, fogging the mirrors. Juno stands in the center of the room, looking lost as she peers around her. I guess I can’t blame her; she only came here once before it all happened, and just briefly.

“The bath’s ready,” I say, reaching for her hand. She takes mine without resistance, letting me guide her to the edge of the bathtub.

I help her out of the scrubs with clinical efficiency. But there’s nothing clinical about the way my heart pounds when I see her body—unchanged, perfect, alive when I watched her burn on a pyre.

I help her into the tub, supporting her weight as she sinks into the water. She sighs, eyes closing. Her body trembles slightly against my hands, and I feel a knot form in my throat. Days ago, I saw flames consume her. Now she’s here, flesh and blood, warm beneath my fingertips.

“This feels good,” she murmurs, not showing any sign of self-consciousness about being naked in front of me. But there’s none of the sensuality from before, either. Just a simple acceptance that being like this is perfectly natural. Which is odd because it’s pretty clear that she doesn’t know who I am.

That should upset me. It doesn’t. All that matters is that she’s here with me, where she belongs. We’ll deal with the other stuff later.

I swirl the water over her, carefully running an eye over her soft curves and pale limbs. There’s no sign of injury, not a hint of the catastrophic damage that killed her. She’d been crushed beneath that pillar, but there isn’t a single sign of it now. Her skin is smooth, unblemished. Perfect. It’s just her mind that seems to have been impacted.

When I move away to reach for the bodywash, her eyes flash open, alarm in their pale depths. I kneel beside the tub, soapy washcloth in hand. I stroke her hair.

“I’ve got you,” I reassure her. My voice sounds rough, like I’ve been screaming for hours. Maybe I have been, in my head, since I watched the light fade from her eyes.

I bathe her with reverent care, washing away dirt and the lingering scent of fire. Fingers, wrists, arms shoulders, the contours of her torso, her belly. Every inch of her skin goes pink under my painstaking attention. My hands move methodically, afraid to linger too long in any one place, afraid to believe this is real.

Her hair, when I wash it, still smells faintly of rosemary beneath the ash. That familiar scent—from the little herb garden she kept on her apartment windowsill—takes me back to a time before the grief, a time I thought I’d lost forever.

She watches me through half-lidded eyes. “You loved me,” she says suddenly. Not a question.

My hand stills on her shoulder. “I love you,” I correct. “Still.” Present tense. Always.

I don’t ask her to say the words back to me. I don’t need her to. Right now, this is enough. Having her here. As if the nightmare was just that… a bad dream. And now it’s over. But it still feels fragile, as if I push too hard, I’ll find myself back in that dark place. Because maybe this is the dream, and the nightmare is my reality.

When I’m satisfied that she’s clean, I help her from the tub, wrapping her in the largest towel I own. She leans against me, sagging slightly on unsteady legs. I stay like that for a moment, my arms around her, my chin on the top of her head, just drinking her in.

In the bedroom, I dry her hair with the towel, examining the impossibly golden curls that weave around my fingers. I don’t care that it looks different; I know it’s still her. When it’s tumbling around her shoulders, I find her a soft T-shirt of mine and a pair of boxers with a drawstring. They swallow her, but she clutches the fabric to her like armor.

“I’m so tired,” she whispers.

“Sleep,” I tell her, guiding her to the bed. “I’ll be right here.”

She crawls under the covers, eyelids already drooping. “I don’t know who I am,” she murmurs as sleep claims her. “But I know you’re mine.”

The words take my breath away. When I try to find my voice, I can’t, so I say nothing, just lean forward and brush my lips over her forehead. Her skin is warm. Very warm. But smooth as silk.

I stroke a strand of hair from her face and adjust the comforter over her. She gives a small sigh, nuzzling into the pillow, her lips curving up slightly. When she exhales a deep breath, her entire body relaxes, the tension seeping out of her.

“Rest, stargazer,” I whisper, still stroking her hair. I stay just like that, hovering over her until I sense sleep taking over. Then I sink into the chair beside the bed, watching her chest rise and fall with each breath. My phone vibrates—Caleb, no doubt, with questions I can’t answer. I silence it without looking.

Nothing matters but this. Her. Alive.

I reach out, fingers finding the pulse point at her wrist. Strong. Steady. Real.

She’s alive.

The impossibility of it all crashes over me. I watched her burn. Stood vigil until there was nothing left but ash. Felt something fundamental break inside me.

Yet here she is.

I don’t know how. Don’t know why. Don’t care.

The universe gave her back to me, and I’m never letting go again.

Outside, night falls over Seattle. Lights flicker on across the skyline. The world continues its relentless spin.

But in this room, time stands still. I count her breaths, guard her sleep, and for the first time since I watched flames consume her body, I feel something like peace.

Whatever brought her back—miracle, magic, or something darker—I’ll face it. Whatever she needs to remember who she is, I’ll provide it. Whatever threatens her, I’ll destroy.

She’s mine. I’m hers.

Death couldn’t change that. Nothing will.