Page 5 of Born in Fire (Dragonblood Dynasty #2)

Chapter 5

J uno

I close my apartment door behind me and lean against it, a smile stretching across my face before I even realize it’s happening. The security check is automatic—deadbolt, chain, secondary lock—but my mind is elsewhere, on golden eyes and a voice like chocolate.

Dorian Craven.

Even his name feels good in my thoughts. I drop my bag on the entryway table, kick off my shoes, and catch sight of myself in the hallway mirror. Flushed cheeks. Bright eyes. I look… happy. The expression seems foreign on my face, and I quickly look away.

“Get a grip, Juno,” I mutter, moving into the kitchen. “He’s just a guy asking for your number. Not exactly groundbreaking.”

But it is, though. It’s the first time I’ve given my number to anyone since Tyler. The first time I’ve felt that flutter of possibility, that dangerous spark of connection.

My therapist would call this progress.

I call it terrifying.

I fill the kettle and set it on the stove, trying to focus on the simple task rather than the memory of Dorian leaning against the counter, watching me with those extraordinary eyes. Eyes that seemed to see straight through my carefully constructed barista persona to something underneath.

The heat that had rushed through me when our fingers briefly touched as I handed him the napkin with my number… it was electric. Unmistakable. I’d forgotten what that felt like—that immediate, animal attraction that has nothing to do with logic or safety or good decisions.

I inhale deeply, catching the scent of basil and mint from my windowsill garden. The herbs are thriving now, unlike my first three attempts. I water them daily, prune them carefully, talk to them sometimes when no one’s around to think I’m crazy. Tyler hated plants—said they were messy, pointless. Just like he thought my painting was pointless. A waste of time that could be better spent focusing on him.

The kettle whistles, pulling me from the memory. I select a mug—cobalt blue with gold stars, something I bought after the breakup specifically because Tyler would have hated it—and drop in a chamomile tea bag. The routine soothes me: pour water, watch steam rise, inhale the gentle aroma.

As I carry the mug to the living room, I catalog the differences between Dorian and Tyler. Both attractive, yes. Both confident. But Tyler’s confidence always seemed like a performance, a tool he wielded to make others feel smaller. Dorian’s felt… natural. Like he was comfortable in his own skin.

And his eyes—there was something astute there. Something that saw me.

“You’re projecting,” I tell myself, settling onto my couch. “Making him into something special because you want him to be.”

My phone buzzes in my pocket. My heart leaps.

It’s him!

Don’t be nuts, Juno. He wouldn’t call so soon.

But it doesn’t matter that I’m trying to talk sense to myself; I’m still feeling a little shiver of excitement as I check the screen. It shows a missed call notification.

Unknown number.

My stomach drops. I know before I even check the voicemail. Some part of me always knows.

I stare at the phone, tea cooling beside me.

Just delete it. You don’t have to listen to it.

I know that would be the healthy choice. The choice that would save my nerves from having to hear that voice again. But curiosity—or maybe masochism—wins out. I press “Play” and hold the phone slightly away from my ear, as if physical distance might lessen the emotional impact.

“Juno.” Tyler’s voice fills my living room, and just like that, my sanctuary is invaded. “I know you’re screening my calls. Real mature. Listen, I saw you heading to work the other day. You’ve lost weight—not in a good way. You look tired. I’m worried about you.”

My breathing quickens. He’s been watching me. The thought makes my skin crawl.

I think about the flowers he sent. I should have known he wouldn’t be content to leave it at that.

God. How did he find me?

“Anyway,” he continues, his tone shifting from concern to irritation, “I need to talk to you about the stuff you still have. My grandmother’s vase? The one you took? It has sentimental value, which you’d understand if you weren’t so selfish.”

I close my eyes. There is no vase. There never was. This is just an excuse to make contact, to create a problem only he can solve.

“Call me back. This is getting ridiculous. It’s been over a year, and you’re still acting like I’m some kind of monster.” His voice softens, becomes the Tyler I first fell for. “I miss you, Ju-Ju. Nobody gets me like you do.”

The nickname grabs me by the throat and twists. I’m back in his apartment, searching frantically for my keys while he holds them behind his back, laughing. “Come on, Ju-Ju, it’s just a joke. You’re so sensitive. Can’t you take a joke?”

I drop the phone like it’s burning me. My hands are shaking. I’m picking at my cuticles again, the skin around my thumbnail now bleeding.

One, two, three, four—inhale. One, two, three, four—exhale.

I press my feet firmly against the floor, feeling its solidity beneath me. I run my fingers over the textured fabric of my couch—blue velvet that I chose because I loved it, not because anyone else approved. I am here, in my apartment. Tyler is not here. He cannot reach me unless I allow it.

“Name five things you can see,” I whisper, my therapist’s exercise coming automatically.

The painting above my fireplace—a night sky I created during a particularly bad week, stars blazing against darkness.

My bookshelf, filled with titles Tyler would have mocked as frivolous.

The small crystal prism hanging in my window, casting rainbow patterns across the wall.

My sketchbook open on the coffee table, a half-finished drawing of the view from the coffee shop.

My mug, steam no longer rising from the tea.

My breathing steadies. The panic recedes, leaving behind a dull anger.

Bastard!

How dare he still intrude on my life? How dare he drive by my workplace, watching me?

I pick up the phone again and delete the voicemail. Then I add the number to my block list—the seventh number of his I’ve had to block. He’ll find another way to contact me. He always does. But each time, I get better at shutting him out.

I sip my tea, now lukewarm, and my thoughts drift back to Dorian. The contrast between the anxiety Tyler’s voice provoked and the warmth I felt with Dorian is stark. But is that just because Dorian is new? Tyler was charming once, too. Attentive. Interested in what I had to say.

My therapist’s voice plays in my mind: “Trust your instincts, Juno. They were working fine before Tyler. The problem wasn’t that you didn’t see the warning signs—it’s that you were taught to ignore them.”

What are my instincts saying about Dorian? There’s the attraction, certainly. The chemistry that flared between us. But beyond that, there was something… familiar about him. Not in a way that triggered warning bells, but more like recognition. As if some part of me already knew him.

“That’s ridiculous,” I say aloud. “You spoke to him for all of five minutes.”

But I can’t deny the pull I felt. Can’t explain why, hours later, I’m still thinking about the way he said my name, as if rolling it around on his tongue.

I curl my legs beneath me and reach for my sketchbook. Almost without conscious thought, I begin drawing his eyes, trying to capture the intensity of his gaze. My pencil moves across the paper, adding the strong line of his jaw, the hint of a smile that seemed both practiced and genuine.

My phone buzzes again, and this time I flinch before seeing it’s a text from an unknown number.

Hi. This is Dorian from the coffee shop. Just wanted to make sure you had my number, too.

Simple. Direct. No overt familiarity or excessive punctuation or emojis. No demands or guilt trips.

I read it three times before saving his number in my contacts. I should wait before responding. That’s the dating rule, isn’t it? Don’t seem too eager.

But I’m not playing games anymore. Tyler taught me how exhausting those are.

Thanks for texting. I’ve saved your number.

His response comes almost immediately.

I’d like to see you again. Are you free for drinks on Tuesday?

Again, it’s simple and direct. Confident without being brassy. I find myself liking it. I find myself wanting to spend time with someone who doesn’t play mind games. And somehow, I’m sure that he won’t.

Tuesday works for me. 6pm? I type, then hit “Send” before I can overthink it. Early drinks should be fine. Short and sweet; I won’t have to sit through an entire meal if it turns out to be a disaster.

Again, his response comes within moments.

Perfect. I know a place with a great view of the stars. If weather permits.

A smile spreads across my face again. He remembered. Such a small thing, but it feels significant. After Tyler, I’d grown accustomed to my preferences being ignored or dismissed as unimportant. But Dorian actually listened when I spoke about the stars.

I run my thumb over my phone screen, feeling a flutter of something I haven’t felt in a long time—anticipation without anxiety. Maybe I’m being foolish, letting my guard down so quickly. But there’s something refreshingly straightforward about him that makes me want to trust this feeling, even if just a little.

And it doesn’t hurt that he’s smoking hot.

I set the phone down and return to my sketch, adding definition to the unusual scale tattoos I glimpsed beneath his rolled-up sleeves. There’s a lightness in my chest that wasn’t there before, despite Tyler’s intrusion. A tiny bubble of hope that I’m almost afraid to acknowledge.

Tuesday is four days away. Two days after the anniversary of my parents’ death, so I can try to process it. Four days to analyze every red flag, every potential warning sign. Four days to talk myself out of it.

Or four days to remember that I’m stronger now. That I can recognize danger without hiding from every possibility of connection.

I glance at the phone once more where it’s resting on the coffee table. In one evening, it’s shown me two different paths in my world: one representing a past I’m still escaping, one offering a future I’m cautiously considering.

I don’t know which path is safer. But suddenly, I’m curious to find out.