Page 4 of Fire’s Resonance (Hearts on Fire #1)

TWO

RAAK

After observing Spark’s workshop for hours, I make my move.

The glass pieces are even more extraordinary up close—each containing impossible flames.

My flames. Gathering the most significant pieces requires careful selection; some resonate with power while others are merely beautiful.

By dawn, I’ve documented everything I need.

The evidence is damning. A human female has created dragon artifacts—pieces that shouldn’t exist outside Emberhold. The clan leader will want answers.

My boots leave scorch marks on the polished marble floor as I stalk toward Clan Leader Blaze Zraa’s chambers. The two warrior guards outside flinch away, nostrils flaring wide at the scent of my barely controlled rage.

Pathetic.

They call themselves Emberhold warriors? Can’t even stand their ground when confronted with a hint of aggression.

I don’t knock—rank has its privileges—just slam the door open hard enough to crack the ancient wood. Splinters scatter across the floor. The sound echoes through the opulent chamber like a gunshot.

“Got your fucking artifacts,” I snarl, silver eyes flashing. The sweet scent of the female still clings to my skin, making my control tenuous at best. Heat radiates from my skin in visible waves.

“Control yourself, Silverclaw.” Blaze’s voice cracks like a whip. I remain standing, towering over his desk as I slap down a folder of photographs—images of her glass pieces, each containing impossible flames. My flames.

“Hhuman female has them. All of them.”

The clan whispers about these flames—proof of my mixed bloodline, my tainted heritage. Gray. Ashen. Defective. But they’re stronger than pure crimson fire, even if no one will fucking admit it. Hot enough to melt dragon-forged steel. Unpredictable enough to breach the strongest wards.

Blaze’s golden eyes narrow as he examines the photographs. His perfectly manicured fingers—no calluses from real work—spread the images across his desk.

“You expect me to believe some human female has managed to create dragonfire glass?” His tone drips with skepticism. “Impossible.” He sniffs the air, his nostrils flaring.

“You’ve scented her, haven’t you? She’s fertile. Unmated.” A knowing smirk crosses his face. “Your defect could make this... complicated.”

Defect.

Always that fucking word.

My jaw clenches so hard, my teeth might crack. Gray flames envelop my fists entirely now, scorching deeper into the expensive desk. The wood blackens under my touch, charring all the way through in spots. I don’t pull back. Let him see the damage. Let him remember what my “defective” flames can do.

“I’ll handle it,” I bite out, each word precise and clipped.

My defect makes me stronger than any of you pure-blooded fuckers.

The clan still sees me as damaged goods—the half-breed enforcer they send to do the dirty work. The missions no one else wants to touch. The bloody, necessary tasks that keep their precious hands clean.

But my dragon blood burns hotter, stronger than theirs. And the female—Spark—her scent calls to both my human and dragon halves in a way I’ve never experienced. Makes my cock throb with constant need. Makes my beast claw at my insides, desperate to get out. To claim. To mate.

I’ve never reacted this way to any female—dragon or human.

The memory of her scent hits me again—cinnamon and molten glass and something wildly feminine that makes my mouth water. My fangs descend partially, pressing against my inner lip. I taste my own blood, metallic and hot.

My female.

“I don’t need a fucking babysitter,” I growl, pulling my thoughts back to the present with effort.

Blaze examines me for a long moment, his gaze calculating. Measuring. He sees too much. Always has. It’s what makes him dangerous.

“Three days,” he finally says, tossing the photographs back across the desk. “Recover the artifacts, determine how she acquired them, and...” he pauses meaningfully, “...handle the female. Permanently, if necessary.”

Something primal rises in my chest at the implied threat.

Heat.

Rage.

Possessiveness so intense it steals my breath.

The mere suggestion of harm coming to her makes my dragon half howl with fury. Scales ripple beneath my skin, threatening to emerge. My fangs descend fully now, cutting deeper into my lip. Blood trickles down my chin.

“She’s mine to deal with,” I say, my voice dropping to a dangerous rumble that echoes with my dragon’s growl. The possessiveness in my tone makes Blaze’s eyebrows rise.

Too much. Revealed too much.

Fuck.

“Interesting,” he murmurs, golden eyes gleaming with newfound interest. “Just make sure your cock doesn’t compromise the mission, Silverclaw.”

I turn and stalk out before I do something that would get me executed, like ripping out the clan leader’s throat. My claws extend and retract with each step. Control slipping. The beast too close to the surface.

Kill threat to mate. Eliminate rival male.

My dragon’s instincts are simple. Primal. But I’m not just dragon. The human part of me understands politics. Understands that killing the leader would mean my own death. Would leave the female—my female—unprotected.

I slam my fist into the stone wall outside Blaze’s chambers, hard enough to crack the ancient rock. Blood smears across the surface, but the pain helps. Grounds me. I need to think. Need to plan.

Find female. Protect female. Claim female.

For once, both halves of me are in agreement.

The night air feels cool against my overheated skin as I perch on the roof opposite Spark’s workshop. I’ve been watching for hours, tracking her movements through the large windows. My muscles ache from the stillness, but I don’t shift position.

Predators know patience.

She works with fire like it’s an extension of herself, fearless, commanding.

Her copper hair glows in the light of her equipment, loose strands escaping from her messy bun to dance around her flushed face.

Her hands move with hypnotic grace, shaping molten glass that would burn human flesh to the bone.

But she handles it with bare fingers, only occasionally wincing when she pushes beyond even her unusual tolerance.

Not human.

Not entirely.

The clan has kept secrets even from me.

My cock has been hard since I arrived, throbbing painfully against my tactical pants. The dragon half of me remains fixated on claiming her. Fucking her. Making her submit. Marking her as mine so every other male would know she’s taken.

Fuck the mission. Fuck the clan. She’s mine. MY female. MINE.

The certainty of it burns through my veins like liquid fire. I’ve never felt this level of possessiveness before. Never wanted a female with this desperate, clawing need that makes it hard to breathe. Hard to think past the urge to take, claim, possess.

My balls ache with the need to fill her. To seed her. To watch her belly swell with my young.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

Her workshop occupies an old brick building in an industrial district, isolated from nearby businesses. Large windows showcase her working space, giving me a perfect view of her movements as she shapes molten glass with her bare hands.

No human should be able to handle those temperatures.

The glass glows orange-white with heat as she manipulates it, her fingers moving through flame that would melt human flesh.

She’s definitely not fully human. Dragon blood. Has to be. The clan has some fucking explaining to do. How many others like her exist? Half-breeds living in ignorance of their heritage?

I watch as she finishes her work, setting the completed piece in a cooling chamber.

The glass orb pulses with an otherworldly glow—living fire captured in physical form.

My fire. My signature. My essence. How is she doing this?

How has she been calling to me through her art for years without knowing?

When the lights finally dim in the main workspace, I move.

Fast.

Silent.

Predator stalking prey.

The alley between buildings is narrow, shadowed.

I keep to the darkness out of habit, though no human could see me if I don’t wish to be seen.

My boots make no sound on the damp pavement.

My senses extend outward, tracking her movements by sound, by scent, by the subtle vibrations of her footsteps through the building.

She’s alone.

Good.

I scale the brick wall with inhuman speed, claws extending just enough to find purchase in the mortar. Three stories up in seconds. The window latch is no obstacle—it melts under the heat of my touch, metal dripping like water. I slide inside with predatory grace, landing silently despite my size.

Like a ghost.

A deadly one.

The moment I enter, her scent hits me—cinnamon, molten glass, and pure female heat. Fertile. Ready.

My nostrils flare, drawing it deep into my lungs. The scent goes straight to my cock, making it jerk and leak against my boxer briefs. My fangs descend fully, pressing sharply against my lower lip. Pre-cum dampens the front of my pants as my shaft pulses with need.

Fuck. She smells like mate. Like home.

The dragon half of me roars, clawing for control. Demanding I find her. Take her. Claim her. Mount her. Make her scream my name as I pound into her. Fill her with my seed until it overflows.

I dig my claws into my palms, using pain to maintain control. Blood drips between my fingers, the scent of it mingling with hers. I need to think. Need to understand what I’m seeing before I act.

Control. Need control.

I stalk deeper into her space, moving silently through the shadowed workshop. Shelf after shelf of glass pieces line the walls, each containing my exact flame signature—the unique gray-silver fire that marks me as defective among dragons.

I lift one, examining it closely in the dim light filtering through the windows.

Impossible.