Page 5 of Fire’s Resonance (Hearts on Fire #1)

No human could replicate this. No dragon, either, for that matter. Each flame signature is unique as a fingerprint. Yet here are dozens of pieces, created over years according to the dates etched in their bases, all containing perfect replicas of my fire.

I inhale deeply, running my nose along the cool surface of the glass, detecting a hint of dragon scent beneath the human fragrance that clings to everything. Not full-blooded, but not entirely human either.

Understanding dawns like a physical blow.

She doesn’t know what she is.

The clan leaders kept this from me. They knew a female existed with compatible flames. My perfect match. My mate.

And they hid her from me. Kept us apart.

Why? What threat could our bonding pose?

My grip tightens until the glass begins to heat under my fingers, softening with my rage. I force myself to set it down before I destroy it. Evidence. I need all of these as evidence. Of what, I’m not yet sure. But every instinct tells me these pieces are important beyond their beauty.

I move to a workbench covered with sketches and design plans. Her handwriting is sharp, angular, with unexpected flowing curves—like her. Technical notes mixed with artistic flourishes. Every design incorporates my flame pattern. Some from years ago, long before we ever met.

Her soul has been calling to mine through her art.

The lights snap on without warning.

I spin, instantly alert, to find her pointing a blowtorch directly at my chest. Her copper hair spills loose around her shoulders like living fire, and her amber eyes flash not with fear but with fierce defiance.

She wears only a thin tank top and sleep shorts that reveal long, toned legs. I can see her nipples hardening beneath the fabric despite her anger, can smell the involuntary arousal that spikes through her outrage.

My dragon purrs at the sight.

Mine.

“Get the fuck out of my workshop before I roast you,” she threatens, the blowtorch flame pathetically small compared to what I could produce with a thought.

My lips curl into a predatory smile. I can’t help it. She’s magnificent in her anger. “You couldn’t even singe me, little flame.”

“Don’t call me that,” she snaps, taking a step closer rather than retreating.

The move surprises me—humans usually sense the predator in me and back away instinctively. Their survival instincts warning them of danger. But she advances, her stance aggressive despite the size difference between us.

“I’m calling the cops if you don’t leave right now.”

She waves the blowtorch threateningly, but her pupils are dilated, her pulse visibly racing at her throat. Her body recognizes me even if her mind doesn’t understand yet. The sweet scent of her arousal intensifies, contradicting her fierce expression.

Her dragon half responds to mine, even as her human half fights it.

I smell her arousal. The sweet, musky scent of her readiness makes my mouth water. Makes me want to drop to my knees and taste her until she screams. Until she begs for my cock.

Need to taste. Need to claim. Need to fuck.

“No, you won’t,” I state with absolute certainty, taking a deliberate step toward her.

The movement brings me within range of the blowtorch flame. I let it lick against my chest, burning through my shirt without marking my skin. Her eyes widen at the demonstration.

“Your body knows what you are. Who you belong to.” I inhale pointedly, making sure she sees me doing it. “I smell how wet you’re getting, little flame. Your human half might be confused, but your dragon knows its mate.”

Her cheeks flush crimson, her free hand clenching into a fist at her side. “My what?” Her voice cracks as I take another step toward her. The blowtorch wavers in her hand.

“Stay back! I don’t know what kind of crazy you’re on, but—”

I move with inhuman speed, crossing the remaining distance in a blur. My hand closes around the blowtorch, crushing the metal nozzle in my bare palm. The flame dies instantly, metal crumpling like paper in my grip.

Her sharp intake of breath sends another wave of her scent crashing over me. Fear tinged with arousal. Confusion laced with recognition.

The scent makes my cock pulse painfully. Makes my fangs ache with the need to sink into her flesh. To mark her as mine.

“Your dragon,” I repeat, towering over her, close enough that my body heat must be palpable to her. Close enough to see the gold flecks in her amber eyes. Close enough that my control threatens to shatter completely. “The part of you that can do this.”

I extend my free hand, palm up, and summon my gray flames.

They dance across my skin in intricate patterns, casting writhing shadows across her face.

Not the simple fire demonstration I’d planned.

My flames respond to her proximity, forming complex, beautiful shapes I’ve never been able to create before.

Responding to her.

To us.

Her eyes widen, pupils almost eclipsing the amber iris. “Holy shit,” she whispers.

Not fear.

Wonder.

Then it happens. Her birthmark—the one I noticed at the gallery—flares in response, glowing red through her skin. The pattern creeps visibly up her arm as we both watch, spreading like living fire beneath her flesh.

The sight hits me with a wave of possessive satisfaction so intense, I can barely breathe through it.

Mine. My female. My mate. MINE.

“Fuck,” I growl, the confirmation of our compatibility making my control slip further.

My claws extend fully, my fangs press against my bottom lip.

Scales ripple beneath my skin, threatening to emerge in patches.

The urge to throw her over the nearest flat surface and mount her is nearly overwhelming.

To bite down on the sensitive juncture of her neck and shoulder. To mark her. Claim her.

I grab her wrist instead, turning it to examine the expanding mark.

The contact sends electric currents racing up my arm.

Her skin burns hot against mine, almost matching my unnatural body temperature.

The mark spreads further at my touch, racing toward her shoulder in intricate flame-like patterns.

“Clan lied to me,” I say, more to myself than to her. “They knew a compatible female existed. They kept us apart.”

She tugs against my grip, but it’s a token resistance. Her body leans toward mine even as her mind fights the pull between us. “Let go of me,” she demands, voice shaking. “I don’t understand any of this.”

My eyes lock with hers, all pretense falling away. “You will. Full moon is soon. Your first transformation is coming.”

My thumb strokes over her birthmark, sending visible sparks between us. Her pupils dilate further at the sensation. Her scent spikes with fresh arousal, making my nostrils flare. Making my cock throb harder.

“I’ll be there when it happens.”

I should stop there. Should explain more carefully. But my dragon half is too close to the surface, too invested in claiming her.

“The clan wants me to eliminate you.”

My lips curl into a dangerous smile that reveals my extended fangs.

“But I’ve never been good at following orders I didn’t want to. You’re not a mistake to be eliminated, little flame.”

I lean in, inhaling along the column of her throat, letting my fangs graze the sensitive skin there. Her pulse jumps beneath my mouth, her scent spiking with a fresh wave of arousal. My cock throbs painfully in response.

“You’re my fucking mate.”

She gasps, her body responding instinctively to my proximity. I smell her arousal intensifying even as her logical brain fights hard. Her free hand comes up to push against my chest, but ends up clutching my shirt instead.

“I’m not anyone’s anything,” she says, but her voice lacks conviction.

Her body tells a different story—pulse racing, pupils dilated, the sweet scent of her need filling the air between us. The musky scent of her arousal makes my mouth water, makes my dragon rumble with approval.

Only mine.

“But you do, Spark Dekker,” I say, releasing her wrist reluctantly, only to gesture toward the shelves of glass. “You’ve been drawing my flame signature for years. Your soul has been calling to mine before you ever saw me.”

I step back just enough to give her space to breathe, to think. “I’m the warrior sent to determine how a human has dragon artifacts in her possession.”

I hear her heart stutter—a frantic, panicked beat against her ribs.

She rubs her wrist where I held it, her fingers tracing the glowing mark that continues to spread across her skin. Her eyes dart between my face and the glass pieces that line her workshop. I can almost see her mind working, connecting dots she never knew existed.

“How do you know my name?” she asks, voice steadier now. Curiosity replacing fear.

“I watched you for days before approaching. Planning how to handle the situation.” My voice roughens as I admit, “Until I caught your scent. Then all plans went to shit.”

Her eyes narrow at that. “You were stalking me?”

“Surveillance,” I correct, though the distinction probably means little to her. “Part of my mission.”

She backs away, putting a workbench between us. Smart girl. “This is insane. I don’t have dragon anything. I’m just a glassblower.”

“A glassblower who can handle molten material with bare hands?”

I circle the bench, stalking her with slow, deliberate movements. Her eyes track me, her breathing quickening. I can hear her heart racing, smell the mixture of fear and arousal pouring off her in waves.

“A glassblower whose work contains flame signatures identical to mine?”

I reach for one of her pieces—a complex spiral of glass with gray fire dancing at its core.

“These aren’t just art. They’re dragon artifacts. Living fire captured in physical form.”

She flinches when I pick up one of her prized spheres. “Don’t—”

I hold it up, letting my flames dance across its surface. The glass responds, internal patterns shifting and swirling to match the movement of my fire. The connection between us visible, undeniable.