Page 6 of Born in Fire (Dragonblood Dynasty #2)

Chapter 6

D orian

I arrive twenty minutes early, which is so unlike me it’s almost embarrassing. Punctuality is Caleb’s obsession, not mine. Yet here I stand at the rooftop bar of The Pinnacle, checking my watch like I’m the one being kept waiting.

What the fuck is up with you, asshole?

The hostess offers me a prime table with a view of Elliott Bay. I decline, choosing one with sight lines to both the entrance and the Space Needle instead. Back to those old habits, keeping an eye out for threats.

Though what threats I’m expecting at a tourist-friendly rooftop bar, I couldn’t say.

I spin my dragon ring, watching the sunset paint the city gold. Mount Rainier looms in the distance, a sleeping giant crowned with snow. Below, Seattle pulses with evening energy—headlights tracing arterial roads, ferries crossing the sound, humans moving through their brief, urgent lives.

My phone buzzes. Caleb, of course.

Did you review the security upgrades for the Heartstone chamber?

I ignore it. The Heartstone can wait. I know he’s been worried about it, but it’s been safely guarded for centuries; it can survive one evening without my attention.

Something prickles along my senses, and then movement at the entrance catches my eye. Juno. My pulse jumps like I’ve spotted rare prey.

She pauses in the doorway, scanning the space—not casually, but methodically, like she’s assessing exit routes.

Interesting.

And then she turns, and her gaze lands on me as if she knew exactly where to find me. Something shifts in her expression. Relief? Wariness? Both?

She approaches, and my senses sharpen impossibly. I catch her scent before she’s halfway across the room—something floral but not perfume, more like herbs. Rosemary? Basil? Underneath that, her natural scent triggers something elemental in my brain.

“Hi,” she says, stopping a foot distance from the table. “Sorry if I’m late.”

“You’re right on time.” I stand, resisting the urge to move closer. “I was early.”

She wears jeans and a deep blue top that makes her eyes look like twilight beneath lashes that seem impossibly long. Her hair falls in waves past her shoulders, catching the golden hour light. Nothing flashy or provocative, yet I can’t look away.

Fuck. She’s beautiful.

“This place has an amazing view,” she says, taking the seat across from me rather than the one I’ve pulled out beside mine. Another boundary established.

“I thought you might appreciate the stars once it gets darker.” I settle back into my chair, giving her space. “Though the city lights make it harder to see them clearly.”

“Light pollution,” she agrees. “My parents used to take me to Mount Baker for real stargazing. The Milky Way looks like spilled sugar across the sky out there.”

Her expression softens when she mentions her parents, then shutters quickly, as if she’s revealed too much.

“What’s your poison?” I ask, nodding toward the approaching server.

“Gin and tonic, please.” She glances at the menu. “With lime, not lemon.”

I order the same, plus a charcuterie board. When the server leaves, Juno’s posture relaxes slightly.

“So,” she says, “beyond stalking baristas for their phone numbers, what do you do, Dorian?”

The question is teasing but pointed. She’s establishing control of the conversation.

“Corporate acquisitions, mainly.” I keep it vague. “My family has interests in various industries.”

“That sounds deliberately mysterious.”

“Says the woman who deflected three personal questions during our coffee shop conversation.” I lean forward slightly. “We could make it a game. For every question you answer, I’ll answer one of yours.”

She considers this, head tilted. The breeze lifts a strand of her hair, and I have the most ridiculous urge to reach out and tuck it behind her ear.

“I’ll start easy,” she says. “What’s with the ring? You keep touching it.”

My hand freezes mid-spin. I hadn’t realized I was doing it.

“Family heirloom.” I hold it up, the silver dragon catching the light. “Superstition says it brings good fortune in business dealings.”

“And does it?”

“I’m here with you, aren’t I?” The line slips out automatically, smooth as silk.

She rolls her eyes, but there’s a hint of a smile. “That’s your practiced line, isn’t it? The one that usually works.”

I blink, genuinely surprised. Women don’t typically call me on my bullshit. “Was it that obvious?”

“Let’s just say I’ve developed an ear for sincerity versus performance.” Something flickers in her expression—a shadow of old pain. “My turn. What do you really want to know about me?”

Our drinks arrive, giving me a moment to consider. I could ask about her past, why she flinches slightly when I move too quickly, why she chose to meet me here instead of letting me pick her up for our date. But instinct tells me to tread carefully.

“Why coffee?” I ask instead. “Is it just a job, or is there more to it?”

The question surprises her. She takes a sip of her drink, considering.

“I love the ritual of it,” she finally says. “The precision, the creativity. Each cup is both science and art.” Her fingers trace patterns on the condensation of her glass. “And I like creating something that brings people small moments of pleasure.”

“The latte art,” I observe. “You’re good at it.”

“I’m getting better. Still can’t nail a rose design.” She leans forward slightly, eyes brightening. “I bet you couldn’t do it either.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“Absolutely. I’ll let you behind the counter sometime, and we’ll see who makes the better latte art.”

The casual mention of “sometime” settles in my chest like warmth. She’s assuming we’ll see each other again.

“Deal,” I say. “Though I should warn you, I’m very competitive.”

“So am I.” Her smile is the first unreserved one I’ve seen, and it leaves me speechless for a second before I gather my wits.

The conversation flows easier after that. We discuss Seattle landmarks, debate the best viewpoint in the city (she argues for Kerry Park, I maintain the water taxi to Bainbridge offers superior views), and discover a shared appreciation for obscure jazz. She becomes animated when talking about art, her hands gesturing expressively, her voice taking on a richness that makes me lean closer.

I find myself genuinely engaged, not faking interest but feeling it. When she laughs at something I’ve said—really laughs, head thrown back—I experience a surge of satisfaction so intense it startles me.

The sky darkens, city lights blinking on like earthbound stars. Our charcuterie board is demolished, our second round of drinks nearly finished. I’ve learned she prefers mountains to beaches, believes espresso should never touch ice, hates white clothing because it makes her think of hospitals, and can name every major constellation. But I still know nothing about her past, her family beyond her astronomer parents, or why caution edges her every movement.

A group of drunk businessmen enters, one of them staggering too close to our table. His shoulder bumps Juno’s chair, and she tenses immediately. Before I can think, I’m half out of my seat, a growl building in my throat.

The man mutters an apology and moves on, but the moment lingers. I slowly sit back down, confused by my reaction. I’ve never been the jealous type, never felt this immediate, primitive need to protect.

“Everything okay?” Juno asks, studying me.

“Fine,” I say, rolling my shoulders to dispel the tension. “Just not a fan of drunk idiots.”

She checks her watch. “I should probably head home. Early shift tomorrow.”

Disappointment hits harder than it should. “Let me walk you.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“Humor me.” I signal for the check. “Just to your building. I promise to be a perfect gentleman.”

She hesitates, then nods. “To the corner of my street. Not all the way to my building.”

Another boundary. Clear, non-negotiable.

“Counter-offer,” I say, signing the bill with a flourish. “To the corner of your street, in exchange for a goodnight kiss.”

The words surprise me as much as her. I don’t typically negotiate for physical contact. Women usually offer freely, eagerly.

Juno studies me, something calculating in her gaze. “That depends entirely on how the walk goes.”

Not a yes, not a no. A challenge.

We leave The Pinnacle and walk east, the night air cool against my skin. Juno maintains a careful foot of space between us, but the distance feels more like protocol than rejection. She points out her favorite buildings, architectural details I’ve never noticed despite centuries in this city.

“You have an artist’s eye,” I observe.

“I used to paint,” she admits. “Still do, sometimes.”

“What stopped you?”

Her step falters slightly. “Life. Bills. Reality.”

There’s more to that story, but I don’t press. Instead, I tell her about the time Caleb and I nearly capsized a sailboat in Elliott Bay, making her laugh again. The sound does something to my insides that I can’t quite name.

Too soon, we reach the corner she’s designated as her boundary. She stops, turning to face me.

“This is me.” She gestures vaguely down the street.

“So it is.” I step closer, testing her comfort. She doesn’t back away. “About that kiss…”

The word hangs in the air between us.

Her eyes meet mine, clear and direct. “I believe the terms were ‘depends how the walk goes.’”

“And how did it go?”

“Better than expected.” A small smile plays on her lips. “One kiss. No funny business.”

My heart lurches like it’s trying to escape. Ridiculous. I’ve kissed hundreds of women across the centuries. Why does this feel like the first time?

I lean down slowly, giving her every chance to pull away. She doesn’t. When our lips meet, the world narrows to a single point of contact.

Heat rushes through me; not the simple spark of desire but something deeper. Her scent envelops me—that unusual blend of herbs I’d picked up on earlier—triggering a possessive instinct so powerful I have to fight to keep the kiss gentle.

One of her hands rests lightly on my chest, neither pulling me closer nor pushing me away. Just touching, connecting. I could stay here for hours, learning the taste of her, the soft sound she makes when I tilt my head to deepen the kiss.

With monumental effort, I pull back. Her eyes flutter open, pupils dilated, cheeks flushed. She looks as stunned as I feel.

“That was…” she begins, then stops.

“Yeah,” I agree, though she hasn’t actually said anything.

We stare at each other for a long moment. My body hums with energy, every sense heightened. I can hear her quickened heartbeat, smell the subtle change in her scent that indicates arousal, see the pulse fluttering at her throat.

“I should go,” she says finally, taking a step back.

I nod, not trusting my voice. The dragon in me protests the separation, urging me to follow, to claim, to protect. I ruthlessly suppress him.

“Dinner,” I say, finding my voice. “Tomorrow? I know a place on the water.”

Tomorrow? What the fuck?

And yet, somehow, it feels too long to wait.

She hesitates, and for a moment, I think she’ll refuse. The possibility bothers me more than it should.

“Tomorrow works,” she says, surprising me. “Text me the details?”

“Absolutely.”

She turns to go, then pauses. “Dorian?”

“Yes?”

“I’m still going to beat you at latte art.”

A laugh escapes me, genuine and surprised. “We’ll see about that, stargazer.”

She smiles, a real one that reaches her eyes, then walks away. I watch until she turns the corner, fighting every instinct that demands I follow to ensure she gets home safely.

My phone buzzes again. Three missed calls from Caleb, two texts about the Heartstone. The real world intruding.

I start walking back toward Craven Towers, but my mind stays with Juno—the taste of her lips, the sound of her laugh, the way she sees beauty in buildings I’ve passed a thousand times without noticing.

Something’s happening to me. Something I don’t understand. A lifetime of casual conquests, and suddenly, I’m counting the hours until tomorrow night like some lovesick kid.

I touch my lips, still warm from hers. Whatever this is, whatever she is to me, one thing is certain: Juno Ashford is dangerous in ways that have nothing to do with physical threat and everything to do with the walls I’ve built around myself for centuries.

And it suddenly occurs to me that I’m looking forward to something more than I’m dreading it.