Page 53 of Forged in Fire

Which, technically, I have.

Ten minutes later, we’re walking down a narrow side street that barely fits two people abreast. The morning sun filters through laundry lines strung between buildings, making the whole scene feel dreamlike.

Riven moves beside me with that same careful awareness I noticed earlier, but there’s something different now. More connected, maybe. Like the act of tending his wound and sharing pieces of our histories has shifted something between us.

The cafe he leads me to sits tucked into the ground floor of a building that looks like it’s been chiseled from ancientstone. Wooden tables worn smooth by countless conversations, windows that let in just enough light to read by.

“Order whatever you want,” Riven says, settling into a corner table where he can watch both the door and the street. “My treat.”

I find myself chuckling. “Is this a date, Riven?”

“If it is, it’ll be one for the books.” He’s totally unfazed by my teasing.

I scan the menu, written in Romanian with English translations underneath. My stomach growls again at the thought of actual food instead of protein bars and whatever I could grab on the run.

But as I sit across from this enigmatic man—assassin, protector, puzzle I can’t quite solve—a dangerous thought creeps in.

What if I let my guard down? What if, just for an hour, I pretend we’re exactly what we look like—two people sharing breakfast in a charming cafe, instead of fugitives planning our next move?

What if I let myself trust him completely?

Chapter 16

Riven

The café smells like strong coffee and fresh pastries. I settle into the wooden chair across from Iris, back to the wall, eyes automatically checking the exits. Her hair is pure fire in the morning light streaming through diamond-paned windows, and something low in my gut tightens in response.

Domestic. That’s the word for this moment. Like we’re two regular people grabbing a meal instead of a Guild assassin and a shadow-wielding dragon sharing intelligence over coffee.

I don’t do domestic.

“What do you supposeplacintais?” Iris murmurs, studying the handwritten menu. Her fingers trace the edges of the paper, and I find myself watching those movements instead of scanning for threats like I should be.

“Pastry,” I tell her, still distracted.

“Andpapana?i?” She tilts her head.

“Dessert. With cream and fruit preserve.”

“Sounds rich.”

“It is. And sweet as hell.”

“You know a lot about Romanian food.” She grins.

I shrug. “I make it my business to understand the places I work in.”

“Makes sense.” She goes back to studying the menu.

And I go back to watching her.

She’s beautiful in daylight. Not the sharp, dangerous beauty I saw before, but something softer. More real. The freckles across her nose, the way she catches her lower lip between her teeth when she’s thinking. Details that make my chest do things I’m not equipped to handle.

“You’re staring,” she says without looking up.

My throat goes dry. Christ. When did I become a fucking teenager?

“Just thinking.” I signal the waitress—a middle-aged woman with kind eyes who approaches without the wariness most people show around me. Another first. Then again, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt and sitting across from a beautiful woman, I guess I look less like a killer and more like a… man.