Page 1 of Fire’s Resonance (Hearts on Fire #1)

ONE

SPARK

The glass orb pulses between my hands. Fucking pulses. Like it’s alive. Like it has a heartbeat.

Heat radiates from the piece—impossible, otherworldly heat that should have shattered the delicate material hours ago. The kiln behind me cranks at temperatures that would melt bone. Yet, here it is. Intact. Perfect. Defying physics like every other piece I create.

“Shit, not again.”

Sweat trickles down between my breasts and follows the curve of my spine to pool at the base.

The tank top under my long-sleeve shirt clings to my skin, damp and restricting.

The sensation should be uncomfortable. It’s not.

My body craves the heat, responds to it in ways that make no logical sense. Pleasure ripples through me.

This isn’t normal. None of this is fucking normal.

The flame patterns inside the orb writhe beneath the surface. Living fire trapped in glass. My creation. My secret. The swirls form a distinctive pattern—the same one that appears in my dreams. The same one that makes my core clench with need when I trace it with my fingertips.

Mine. The thought comes unbidden, in a voice that doesn’t sound entirely like my own.

I set the piece down on my workbench, unable to tear my eyes away from the hypnotic pattern. The flames seem to reach toward me, begging for release. For reunion.

“Fuck.”

My sleeve rides up, exposing the scale-like birthmark on my inner wrist. It pulses with an orange-red glow that matches the orb perfectly. Pain shoots up my arm—not unpleasant, more like pressure building. Like something trying to break free.

I yank the sleeve down with practiced speed.

A reflex born from years of hiding what doctors couldn’t explain.

“Unusual pigmentation,” they called it. “Harmless,” they said.

Liars. The mark burns with increasing frequency lately, usually when I work with fire, sometimes waking me from dreams so erotic they leave me gasping.

Dreams of silver eyes and scales and wings.

Dreams of him.

My teeth ache suddenly, canines throbbing as if trying to lengthen. I probe them with my tongue, finding nothing unusual, but the sensation persists. What the actual hell is happening to me?

“Just a weird birthmark,” I mutter for the thousandth time--a lie I’ve told myself for years. The mark has grown this month, spreading halfway to my elbow when it glows brightest. I’ve taken to wearing long sleeves even in the sweltering heat of the workshop.

My studio reeks of fire and molten sand. The scent hits my nose, triggering an immediate physical response—my nipples hardening, heat flooding between my thighs. I press them together, fighting the sensation. My body’s betraying me. Getting turned on by the smell of my own workshop?

I move between shelves of completed pieces, each containing impossible flames suspended in glass.

“My pretties,” I whisper, running my fingers over them possessively.

The pieces warm to my touch like living things responding to their creator.

My fingertips leave faint scorch marks that fade almost instantly.

Another impossibility I’ve stopped questioning.

The glass collection grows steadily, crowding the shelves. I can’t bring myself to sell most of them. They feel too personal. Too much a part of me. The flames inside form patterns I don’t consciously create—as if my hands are guided by some primal knowledge buried deep in my DNA.

My nostrils flare suddenly, catching a new scent—something metallic and male—that wasn’t there before. Heat rushes to my core so fast I gasp. My panties dampen instantly. My breasts feel heavy, aching for touch.

Want. Need. Mate.

What the actual fuck?

I spin around, scanning the empty workshop. No one there. No one has been here all day. Yet the scent lingers, triggering responses in my body I can’t control. Responses reserved for lovers, not phantom smells.

The skin between my shoulder blades itches fiercely. I reach back, scratching at it, feeling unusual warmth there—warmer even than my naturally elevated body temperature.

I grab the edge of my workbench, knuckles whitening.

Breathe. Just breathe, Spark. You’re not losing your fucking mind.

There’s a logical explanation for all of this.

For the heat resistance. For the birthmark.

For the dreams. For the constant, building arousal that no amount of self-pleasure can satisfy.

Run. Stay. Hide. Claim.

Contradictory instincts war within me. My mind says one thing. My body screams another.

There has to be an explanation.

“He’s dangerous, Spark.”

Ivy’s voice cuts through my thoughts as she leans against the doorframe.

My foster sister’s face is drawn with concern, her light brown hair pulled back in her usual practical ponytail.

The protective amulet at her throat—the one she’s worn since we were teenagers—seems to pulse with a faint inner light.

Or maybe that’s just another hallucination to add to my growing list.

I set down my tools, wiping my hands on a nearby rag. “Who’s dangerous?”

“The silver-eyed guy. He called again.”

My heart slams against my ribs at the mention of silver eyes. Like the ones from my dreams. Like the ones I’ve never seen in real life but can picture with perfect clarity. I turn away, hiding my reaction.

“What did he want this time?” I keep my voice casual. Disinterested. Another lie.

“Offered fifty grand for your flame series.” Ivy fidgets with her amulet, eyes narrowed. “But it’s not just about the art. He asked questions about you. Personal ones.”

That gets my attention. I turn back to her. “Like what?”

“Like whether you’re single.” Ivy’s fingers tighten around the amulet. “Whether you ‘run hot,’ whatever the hell that means. If you’ve shown any ‘unusual abilities’ recently.” She shudders visibly. “My skin crawled, Spark. Like talking to a predator who’s found his prey after a long hunt.”

The description should alarm me. Instead, something primal stirs in my belly. Heat. Interest. Anticipation.

Found me. Coming for me. Mine.

“So he’s hot and interested?” I quip, trying to mask the flash of heat between my thighs at the thought of those silver eyes I’ve only heard described but somehow know intimately.

“He’s something, all right,” Ivy mutters. “Just not human.”

I roll my eyes, ignoring the shiver that runs down my spine. “You and your supernatural conspiracy theories.”

“You’re the one making glass that doesn’t break and burns people who touch it wrong,” she counters.

“It doesn’t burn people—”

“That collector in San Francisco.” Ivy reminds me. “Second-degree burns when he tried to touch your ‘Fire Within’ piece without permission. The gallery owner who needed medical attention after moving your display without asking.”

“Those were...” I trail off. I have no explanation for those incidents. Never have. The glass responds to my emotions somehow. Protects itself. Protects me. “Flukes.”

Ivy doesn’t push it. Her eyes soften. “The gallery opening’s at seven. Don’t forget.”

“As if you’d let me.” I set the newest orb on a special stand, noting how it seems to pulse in time with my heartbeat. “Fifty grand would keep this place running for months.”

“Just be careful. Promise me.”

“I’m always careful.”

Ivy snorts. “Says the woman who works with temperatures hot enough to melt steel with her bare hands.” She hesitates at the door. “Wear the emerald dress. The one with the low back. If Mr. Silver Eyes shows up, might as well give him something to look at.”

After she leaves, I stand motionless in the center of my workshop. Fifty thousand dollars for pieces I’ve been unwilling to sell. An unknown buyer with silver eyes who asks about whether I “run hot.” My birthmark throbs in response to the thought.

For the first time in my life, I’m scared of myself. Of what’s happening to me. Of what I might become.

The shower does nothing to calm my nerves. Water sizzles against my skin, steam filling the bathroom beyond what should be possible from a lukewarm setting. I watch rivulets roll down my arms, turning to vapor before reaching my elbows. Another thing I try not to think about.

I’ve measured my body temperature before – degrees, consistently. Should be a life-threatening fever. For me, it’s normal. Has been since puberty.

“Get your shit together, Spark,” I growl at my reflection as I apply makeup. The emerald dress hugs my curves, the color making my copper-red hair look like living flame. My birthmark throbs painfully beneath the wide silver bracelet I’ve chosen as cover.

As I apply deep red lipstick, every light in the apartment surges brighter, then dims. Not the first time. Won’t be the last. Electronics malfunction around me constantly. Another item on the growing list of “shit I can’t explain.”

My body feels hypersensitive tonight. Skin tight. Nipples aching against silk. Core throbbing with emptiness. Like I’m in heat. The thought brings a rush of wetness between my thighs.

“It’s just a gallery opening, not a fucking mating ritual,” I tell my reflection. The word “mating” sends an unexpected jolt of pleasure straight to my core. My pupils dilate visibly, irises flashing gold for a heartbeat before returning to their normal amber.

Damn, I need to get laid if I’m this worked up over a client I haven’t even met.

But deep down, I know that’s not it. No random hookup will satisfy what’s building inside me. This hunger has a specific target. And I’m terrified I’m about to meet him.

True mate, whispers that strange voice in my head. Fated pair.

The gallery buzzes with San Francisco’s art elite, champagne flutes clinking, pretentious conversation flowing. The moment I enter, something shifts in the atmosphere. Every glass in the room vibrates at a frequency only I seem to notice. The electric lights flicker once, twice, before stabilizing.