Page 7 of Born in Fire (Dragonblood Dynasty #2)

Chapter 7

J uno

I check my reflection in the restaurant window, smoothing a wayward strand of hair. I’ve left it down tonight, waves falling past my shoulders instead of my usual no-fuss ponytail. A small rebellion against the voice in my head that sounds suspiciously like Tyler’s: You look messy with your hair down. You should keep it tidy if you want people to take you seriously.

Taking a deep breath, I pull open the door to Marea, the small waterfront restaurant Dorian suggested. The hostess smiles as I give Dorian’s name, and I automatically scan the space—exits, number of patrons, potential obstacles. Old habits.

Then something draws my attention around, and I see him. My heart does a ridiculous little bounce.

Dorian sits at a window table, the Seattle skyline twinkling behind him like a backdrop designed specifically to highlight his profile. He’s looking out at the view, the lights framing his broad shoulders beneath a crisp navy button-down that’s open at the throat. Dark hair curls against his collar; it looks freshly washed, thick enough to lose my fingers in.

He stands when he spots me, and the genuine pleasure that transforms his face sends warmth spreading through my chest.

“You made it,” he says, as if my arrival is a delightful surprise rather than a scheduled meeting.

“I got a cab right away, and traffic was lighter than expected.” I allow him to pull out my chair, noticing how he positions himself so I have the better view of both the restaurant and the water. Coincidence, or did he somehow sense my preference for situational awareness?

“I thought you might appreciate the view,” he says, gesturing toward the window. “Though I’m finding it hard to compete with the one across the table.”

I roll my eyes but can’t suppress a smile. “That line work on all your dates?”

“Only the ones who call me on my bullshit.” His eyes crinkle at the corners; there are flecks of gold in them that I find hard to look away from. “Which, now that I think about it, is a very short list.”

The waiter appears with water and wine menus. Dorian asks questions about vintages with easy confidence, neither showing off nor deferring to me. When he suggests a Washington Syrah, he watches for my genuine reaction rather than assuming my agreement.

It’s… refreshing.

“So,” he says once our wine arrives, “how was your day of caffeinating the corporate masses?”

“Uneventful. Though I did create a perfect fern leaf in a customer’s latte.” I take a sip of wine, rich and velvety on my tongue. “Still practicing that rose for our competition.”

“Ah yes, the gauntlet has been thrown.” He traces the rim of his glass. “I should warn you, I’m naturally talented at everything I try.”

“Modest, too.”

“Modesty is overrated.” His smile is infectious. “Truth is more interesting.”

The conversation flows easily through appetizers—local oysters that Dorian insists I try despite my skepticism.

“Would you believe Caleb can’t stand them?” He tips his head back and empties a shell into his mouth. I watch as the strong column of his throat works as he swallows, then feel my cheeks heating when he looks down and catches me staring.

“He’s your twin, right?” I state the obvious.

“Yeah. Although that’s where the resemblance stops. In every other way, we’re polar opposites.” He gives a wry smile. “Caleb irons his underpants, I swear to God.”

I snort-laugh in response and then cover my mouth with my hand, embarrassed, although he just grins.

“What about you?” he asks as our main courses arrive. “Any siblings?”

“No, just me.” I focus on cutting my salmon into precise pieces. “My parents wanted more children, but it never happened.”

“You were close with them.” Not a question.

I look up, surprised by his perception. “Yes. Very.”

Something in his expression encourages me to continue. I take another sip of wine, weighing how much to share.

“They died three years ago.” The words still catch in my throat. “Plane crash. They were flying to a conference in Denver.”

Dorian’s face softens with genuine empathy. “I’m sorry, Juno. That’s a hell of a thing to go through.”

“It was… unexpected.” An understatement so vast it’s almost laughable. “They were everything to me. We were really close.”

“I’m so sorry.” The words should sound trite, but somehow they don’t.

“My dad died on impact, but Mom made it to the hospital before…” I trail off, not sure why I’m telling him so much. I never talk about this. “Anyhow, it’s why I hate them, I guess. Hospitals, I mean.” I shrug, but there’s nothing careless about the gesture.

His hand moves across the table, not quite touching mine but close enough that I could close the gap if I wanted. “My mother died when I was born,” he says quietly. “I never knew her.”

The simple admission creates a bridge between us. “That’s its own kind of loss.”

He nods, something indecipherable in his eyes. “My father died about ten years ago. Heart attack at his desk.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It was considered… dishonorable in our family.” His mouth twists. “Dragons are supposed to die in battle, not from cholesterol.”

“Dragons?” I feel my brow furrow. Did he say dragons ?

“Family metaphor.” He waves it away. “My father was obsessed with legacy, with appearing strong. He saw himself as an apex predator in the business world. Dying at his desk was the ultimate failure in his eyes.”

I consider this. “I think there’s honor in working for what you believe in, even if it kills you.”

“That’s a generous interpretation.” His fingers brush mine as he reaches for his wineglass. The contact sends a small shiver up my arm, but not the anxious kind I’ve grown accustomed to. This is… different. Pleasant.

“What were they like?” he asks. “Your parents.”

No one has asked me this in a long time. Most people avoid the topic of my parents, afraid to trigger grief. But Dorian asks directly, with genuine interest.

“My father was brilliant but absentminded. Always looking at the stars when he should be watching the sidewalk.” I smile at the memory. “My mother was more practical but just as passionate about astronomy. They met at an observatory studying Jupiter’s moons, like I told you.”

“Hence your name.”

“Hence my name.” Our knees touch under the table, and I don’t pull away. “They used to take me camping in dark sky reserves to see meteor showers. We’d lie on the hood of our car with hot chocolate, counting falling stars until dawn.”

My voice catches, and I look down at my plate. Dorian waits, not rushing to fill the silence or change the subject. When I glance up, his eyes hold mine with unexpected understanding.

“The people we lose shape us as much as the ones who stay,” he says softly.

Something in his tone suggests he’s lived this truth for longer than seems possible. I find myself wanting to know more about him—the real him beneath the charm and easy confidence.

“What about your brother?” I ask. “You said you’re twins but opposites?”

Dorian laughs, the moment of solemnity passing. “Caleb got all the responsibility genes. He runs the family business with an iron fist. I handle the boring stuff and generally drive him crazy.”

“You both run Craven Industries. Where I work,” I say, because until now, he’s skirted the topic. Time to pin him down.

“Ah. You figured it out.” He smiles wryly. “Yeah. You got me. I guess you could say I’m a big shot.” He pulls a face. “We’re in everything from tech to real estate.”

“So you’re what—some kind of executive?”

“Some kind.” He shrugs. “Does it matter?”

I consider this. Normally, discovering a date was hiding his status would set off alarm bells. But Dorian doesn’t seem to have concealed it to be deceptive—more like he wanted to be seen for himself rather than his position.

“I suppose not,” I admit. “Though it explains the fancy restaurant.”

“Would you prefer somewhere less fancy next time?”

Next time. The assumption should irritate me, but instead, I feel a tiny thrill. “I didn’t say that.”

His smile widens. Throughout dessert—a dark chocolate torte we share—our hands brush repeatedly. Each contact feels deliberate yet natural, testing boundaries without pushing them.

When the check arrives, I reach for my purse, but Dorian gently places his hand over mine. It’s warm and strong.

“Please. I invited you.”

I hesitate, Tyler’s voice echoing in my head: I paid for dinner, so the least you could do is…

But Dorian isn’t Tyler. “Thank you,” I say simply.

Outside, the night air carries the scent of salt water. Dorian offers his arm, and after a moment’s hesitation, I take it. His body radiates warmth through his jacket sleeve.

“May I drive you home?” he asks.

Normally, I’d refuse. But tonight, the thought of extending our time together outweighs caution.

“That would be nice.”

We pause at the restaurant’s entrance, where a valet hops to attention as soon as he spots Dorian. Moments later, a gleaming red Jaguar pulls up to the curb. Dorian opens the passenger door, and I slide into the buttery leather of the front seat, inhaling the warm scent I’m beginning to associate with him.

During the drive, we talk about Seattle landmarks we pass, his knowledge of the city’s history surprisingly extensive. When we reach my neighborhood, I find myself directing him all the way to my building rather than the corner, as I’d originally planned.

“Here we are,” I say as he parks.

“I’ll walk you to your door,” he says. In the dim light of his car, his expression is open, patient. No pressure, just a simple offer.

“Okay,” I decide.

We walk side by side to my building entrance, his hand occasionally brushing mine. At the door, I turn to face him, anticipation building for what might be another kiss like the one that’s occupied my thoughts since last night.

“I had a wonderful time,” he says, stepping closer. He’s so damn tall I have to tip my head back.

“So did I.” I look up at him, admiring the way the streetlight catches in his dark hair.

He leans down slowly, giving me time to pull away if I want. I don’t. Our lips meet in a kiss that starts gentle but quickly deepens as his mouth moves over mine, warm and minty. His hand cups my face with surprising tenderness, and I find myself leaning into his touch rather than away from it.

When we part, I’m slightly breathless. “Would you like to come up for coffee?”

What the hell, Juno?

The words surprise me as much as him. I never invite men to my apartment. Never.

“I’d like that,” he says softly.

We climb the stairs to my third-floor apartment, and I’m acutely aware of his presence behind me. Not threatening but solid. Real.

Coffee. It’s just coffee.

As we round the final landing, something white catches my eye. My steps falter.

Lilies.

A large bouquet of white lilies is propped against my door.

My mother’s favorite flower. The ones Tyler brought to the funeral. The ones he sends when he wants to remind me of my grief, my vulnerability.

The world narrows to a pinpoint. My chest constricts, lungs suddenly unable to draw air. My pulse pounds in my ears, drowning out whatever Dorian is saying.

He knows where you live.

Tyler knows where you live!

My hands shake violently as I fumble for my keys, desperate to get inside, to lock the door, to hide. But the lilies block my way, their cloying scent suffocating me.

“Juno?” Dorian’s voice sounds distant, underwater. “What’s wrong?”

I can’t answer. Can’t breathe. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision as panic consumes me. My knees buckle, and I feel Dorian’s arms catch me before I hit the floor.

“Keys,” I manage to gasp. “Inside. Please.”

With surprising efficiency, Dorian takes my keys, moves the lilies aside with his foot, and unlocks my door. He guides me inside, his arm strong around my waist. Once the door closes behind us, he locks it—deadbolt, chain, everything—without being told.

“Breathe with me,” he says, his voice low and steady. “In through your nose, out through your mouth. That’s it.”

I focus on his voice, trying to match my breathing to his. The panic is a living thing inside me, clawing at my chest, screaming danger.

“The flowers,” I choke out. “Get rid of them. Please.”

Without question, Dorian reopens the door, grabs the lilies, and disappears briefly. I hear a distant thud—the trash chute at the end of the hall. When he returns, he washes his hands thoroughly in my kitchen sink before returning to where I’ve collapsed on the couch.

“They’re gone,” he says, sitting beside me but not touching. “You’re safe.”

The words penetrate the fog of panic. Safe. Am I? Tyler found my address. He was here, at my door.

“He found me,” I whisper, hugging myself tightly.

Dorian’s expression darkens. “Who found you?”

I shake my head, unable to explain the whole sordid history. “My ex. He… doesn’t accept that it’s over.”

Understanding dawns in Dorian’s eyes, followed by something fierce that should frighten me but doesn’t.

“Has he threatened you?”

“Not explicitly.” I take a shuddering breath. “He just… won’t let go. It’s been over a year.”

Dorian’s jaw tightens, but his voice remains gentle. “What can I do?”

The simple question—acknowledging my self-reliance rather than taking over—brings unexpected tears to my eyes.

“You’re already doing it.”

We sit in silence for several minutes as my breathing gradually steadies. Dorian doesn’t press for details, doesn’t offer platitudes about restraining orders or moving on. He simply remains present, a solid anchor in the storm.

“I’m sorry,” I finally say, embarrassment creeping in as the panic recedes. “This isn’t exactly how I planned the evening to end.”

“Don’t apologize.” His eyes hold mine. “Not for this.”

I look away, suddenly aware of how vulnerable I’ve allowed myself to be.

“You should probably go. It’s late.”

“Do you want me to go?”

The question stops me. Do I? The thought of being alone makes the panic threaten to return, but having him stay crosses every boundary I’ve established since Tyler.

“No,” I admit quietly. “But I don’t think I’m good company right now.”

“I’m not looking for entertainment, Juno.” He shifts slightly, giving me more space. “I’m going to stay until you feel safe. Just that. Nothing else.”

I study his face, searching for ulterior motives, for the mask to slip. It doesn’t.

“Okay,” I whisper.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

I shake my head. “Not tonight.”

“Okay.” He stands. “How about I make some tea? You look cold.”

I am cold, I realize, shivering with leftover adrenaline.

“Kitchen’s through there. Mugs in the cabinet above the kettle.”

While he moves around my small kitchenette with surprising ease, I pull my grandmother’s quilt from the back of the couch and wrap it around my shoulders. The weight helps settle me in the present.

Dorian returns with two steaming mugs. “Chamomile. Hope that’s okay.”

“Perfect.” I accept the mug, our fingers brushing. “Thank you. For everything.”

He settles beside me, close enough to feel his warmth but not touching. “No thanks needed.”

We sip tea in companionable silence. The panic has left me drained, eyelids growing heavy despite my attempts to stay alert.

“You should rest,” Dorian says softly, taking my empty mug from me. “I’ll be right here.”

“You don’t have to stay,” I murmur, even as I feel myself leaning toward him.

“I know.” His arm gently encircles my shoulders, and I find myself resting against his chest. His heartbeat is strong and steady beneath my ear. “But I want to.”

I should protest. Should maintain the walls that have kept me safe. But as sleep pulls me under, all I can think is how long it’s been since I’ve felt this protected, this understood.

My last conscious thought is that Dorian’s presence doesn’t feel like an invasion of my carefully constructed fortress.

It feels like coming home.