Page 9 of Born in Fire (Dragonblood Dynasty #2)
Chapter 9
J uno
I wake up with the sun on my face. For a moment, I lie still, waiting for the usual knot of anxiety to form in my stomach. It doesn’t come.
My hand reaches automatically for my phone to check the time—6:32 a.m. I’ve slept later than usual, yet feel more rested than I have in months. The air still seems to carry Dorian’s scent—sandalwood and something warmer, like embers. I stretch, feeling pleasantly sore in ways that bring heat to my cheeks as memories flood back.
His mouth on mine. His hands exploring with exquisite care. The way he’d focused entirely on my pleasure, refusing to let me please him back. The tenderness with which he’d carried me to bed.
I let him touch me. No… asked him to. Pleaded with him, if I’m honest with myself. And all after just two dates.
Holy shit.
A year and a half of looking over my shoulder, suspicious of every man I meet, and in just a few days, Dorian Craven has melted every one of my defenses.
I’m halfway to the bathroom before I realize I haven’t performed my usual security check—windows, doors, closets. The routine that’s governed my mornings since leaving Tyler has been forgotten, replaced by… what? Not carelessness. Something else. Something that feels strangely like freedom.
Screw Tyler! Screw him and his bullshit.
He doesn’t get to ruin my life. I left him so that I could live again… and this is me living again. Taking pleasure where I want it. So what if it’s only been two dates? Some women have one-night stands. Some women don’t let men hurt them or intimidate them. I have the right to that, too.
In the shower, I notice my body with new awareness. My hands trace paths where Dorian’s lips had been, appreciating rather than criticizing. Tyler had always pointed out flaws—the birthmark on my hip, the asymmetry of my breasts. Dorian had touched me like I was something precious, something perfect in my imperfection.
I wrap myself in a towel and wipe steam from the mirror. My reflection looks different somehow. Same features, same sandy-blonde hair, but something has shifted in my eyes. They look clearer. More resilient.
“You’re still you,” I tell my reflection. “Just… more.”
In the kitchen, I prepare breakfast with unusual attention—fresh berries arranged carefully atop yogurt, coffee brewed with precision. I’m halfway through eating when I realize I still haven’t checked the locks. For a moment, anxiety flickers—what if Tyler came back while I slept? What if the door isn’t secure?
I take a deep breath in.
One, two, three, four. Hold. Release.
“Check if you need to,” my therapist’s voice says in my head, “but make it a choice, not a compulsion.”
I finish my breakfast first. A small victory, but it feels significant.
When I do finally check the locks, I do it once. Just once. Not the usual three times. Another victory.
Sitting on the couch where everything happened last night, I remember my panic attack—the way my chest had constricted, vision tunneling, breath coming in gasps. Tyler’s flowers. The violation of my safe space.
But more vividly, I remember Dorian’s response. No dismissal. No irritation. No “you’re overreacting” or “just calm down.” He’d simply acted—removing the trigger, securing the space, remaining present without demanding explanation.
Tyler would have used my panic to prove my weakness, my dependence on him. Dorian had somehow used it to return power to me.
I grab a notebook and pen. At the top of the page, I write: RECLAIMING CONTROL.
I stare at the list, then add a fifth item:
The last one makes me nervous but also determined. My therapist has been working with me on distinguishing between anxiety and intuition. And my intuition about Dorian feels… different. Clearer. Like recognizing something I’ve been looking for without knowing I was searching.
I get dressed for work with unusual care—a blue blouse that makes my eyes seem deeper than their normal bland shade, jeans that fit well, hair loose around my shoulders. Not for anyone else. For me.
The Grind & Bean is already bustling when I arrive. Lisa does a double-take as I hang up my coat.
“You look different,” she says, studying me. “Good different.”
“Thanks.” I tie my cheery polka dot apron with brisk movements. “I feel different.”
Like someone who got lucky.
I stifle a grin as I move behind the counter with a confidence I haven’t felt in months. My hands are steady as I calibrate the espresso machine. My voice is clear as I greet the first customers. I catch myself standing straighter, making clear eye contact rather than the quick glances I usually manage.
Mid-morning, a businessman in an expensive suit approaches the counter. I’ve seen him before—he always orders a double espresso and makes comments that skirt the line between friendly and flirtatious.
“Morning, beautiful,” he says with an obnoxiously smooth smile. “You’re looking especially lovely today.”
Three days ago, this would have made me shrink, mumble a response, and focus intently on making his drink. Today, I meet his eyes directly.
“Good morning,” I reply pleasantly but professionally. “Double espresso today?”
He looks momentarily taken aback by my directness. “Yes, please. And maybe your number to go with it?”
“Just the espresso,” I say with a polite smile that somehow feels like armor. “That’ll be $3.75.”
He pays without further comment, looking slightly confused by my calm refusal. As he walks away, I realize my heart isn’t racing. My palms aren’t sweaty. He didn’t scare me.
During my lunch break, I sit in the quiet corner of the break room and make the call I’ve been dreading and anticipating in equal measure.
“Seattle Police Department, non-emergency line.”
I take a deep breath. “I’d like to report ongoing harassment from my ex-boyfriend.”
The officer who takes my statement is professional and matter-of-fact, which helps me remain calm as I detail Tyler’s behavior—the calls from different numbers, the stalking behavior, and now the flowers left at my door.
“Do you have documentation of previous incidents?” she asks.
“Yes. I’ve kept a log with dates, times, and screenshots of messages. I have a folder for legal purposes.” Another boundary Tyler taught me to establish, though not in the way he intended.
“That’s excellent, Ms. Ashford. Very helpful for establishing a pattern.” She sounds impressed, which gives me a small surge of pride. “We’ll send an officer to take your formal statement tomorrow. In the meantime, continue documenting any contact.”
After ending the call, I stare at my phone, scrolling through contacts until I find Rachel’s name. We’d been close friends since college until Tyler gradually drove a wedge between us, calling her a “negative influence” and creating conflicts until I stopped reaching out.
My thumb hovers over her name.
What if she’s pissed off?
A flurry of doubts rises up. What if she doesn’t want to hear from me? What if she’s still angry about how I disappeared?
“You’ll never know unless you try,” my therapist’s voice reminds me.
I press “Call” before I can change my mind.
“Juno?” Rachel’s voice is surprised but not unwelcoming. “Is that really you?”
“It’s me,” I confirm, throat suddenly tight. “I… I’ve missed you.”
There’s a pause that feels eternal. “I’ve missed you too. Are you okay? Are you… still with… him?”
The distaste in her voice is unmistakable.
“No. Not for a year and a half.” I swallow hard. “I’m sorry I disappeared. He… It wasn’t a good situation.”
“Oh, honey.” Her voice softens with understanding. “I figured as much. I’m just glad you’re calling now.”
We make plans for coffee next week, and when I hang up, I feel lighter. Another piece of myself reclaimed from Tyler’s shadow.
Before returning to work, I make two more calls—one to a locksmith who specializes in security upgrades, and another to my building manager to get permission for installation. When the manager hesitates about the security camera I want to mount in the hallway, I find myself calmly but firmly explaining why it’s necessary.
“I understand your concerns about aesthetics,” I say, channeling the confidence I felt earlier, “but my safety needs to take priority. The camera will be discreet and only pointed at my door.”
To my surprise, he agrees without further argument.
By the end of my shift, I’ve arranged for both the locksmith and security installation tomorrow morning. My manager has approved a schedule change to accommodate it. I’ve even texted Rachel again.
You got this, girl. You totally got this!
As I head home, I notice I’m not constantly checking over my shoulder. I’m still aware of my surroundings—that’s just good sense—but the hypervigilance has eased. I’m going home, not fleeing to safety.
I feel lightheaded with the newfound sense of freedom. After months of self-doubt, fear, and anxiety, I feel like I’m starting to rediscover myself.