Page 5 of Shifting Hearts

FIVE

Dreams That Burn

Paris

H eat.

That’s what I remember first. Not the warmth of blankets or fire, but something hotter. Wilder. A furnace under my skin, pulsing in time with my heartbeat.

And him. Ranger.

The dream clings to me like smoke even as I wake. Ranger’s hands—rough and strong—pinning me down, his mouth on mine, his growl vibrating against my throat. His weight pressing me into the mattress, his name ripped from my lips like a plea.

I jerk awake, breath catching in my throat.

The cabin swims into focus. Firelight flickers low in the stove. My body aches, my skin damp with sweat, my thighs pressed tight together beneath the quilt. My pulse is still racing, my core throbbing with a need that isn’t fading.

It felt so real. Too real. It takes me a moment to realize he’s here.

Ranger sits on the edge of the bed, half-turned toward me, shadows cutting across his sharp jaw. His shoulders are hunched, his fists clenched tight on his thighs. His eyes are on the floor, but his body is wound so tight it looks like he might shatter.

The dream slams back into me. My stomach flips. Goddess, did I…?

Heat floods my face. I can still feel it, the way I whispered his name in the dream, the way my body moved against the sheets, desperate for more.

What if it wasn’t only a dream?

The silence stretches, heavy. My throat dries. I lick my lips and whisper, “You stayed.”

His head lifts slightly, his storm-grey eyes locking on mine. There’s something raw there, something that makes my chest ache.

“You were restless,” he says gruffly. His voice is low, tight, like every word is dragged from him against his will. “I didn’t want you to hurt yourself.”

I swallow hard. My dream echoes in my body, in the bond that hums louder than ever. I shift beneath the quilt, and the brush of fabric against my thighs nearly makes me gasp.

“Did I…” My voice cracks. I can’t finish.

His jaw clenches. He looks away, his nostrils flaring, his body going rigid. The answer is in the way he doesn’t answer. Mortification crashes over me. Goddess. I did. I moaned his name in my sleep. I begged for him like some desperate fool.

I curl into the blanket, wishing it could swallow me whole. Shame stings hot behind my eyes. First Gabriel rejected me in front of everyone, and now this…. making a fool of myself in front of the one man who already makes it clear he doesn’t want me.

“Paris.” His voice is sharp, pulling me back.

I force myself to meet his gaze.

“You don’t have to be ashamed.” His tone is harsh, but his eyes burn, softer, conflicted. “It’s the bond. It pulls at us both. You can’t fight your body for wanting what fate demands.”

I flinch. His words aren’t cruel, but they cut all the same. Because fate already gave me one mate. And he rejected me. What if Ranger does too?

The fear curls sharp in my chest, twisting the ache of desire into something darker. I turn away, burying my face in the pillow, whispering so low I’m not sure he can hear.

“I don’t think I can survive being unwanted twice.”

The words hang heavy in the cabin, filling the silence like smoke.

Ranger’s jaw flexes, his fists clenching tight on his thighs. For a long moment, I think he’ll leave, storm out into the night, and not come back. My chest squeezes, waiting for the sound of the door.

Instead, his voice comes low and rough, right beside my ear. “Do you honestly think I don’t feel it too? The bond? You think I’m not fighting it every damn second I’m near you?”

I whip around, my eyes wide. He was just on the bed but he’s standing now, his body tense, his hair falling wild around his face, his storm-grey eyes burning into mine.

“Then why pull away?” My voice cracks, too raw. “Why look at me like touching me is a mistake?”

His nostrils flare. “Because it is. Because once I start, I won’t stop. And you’ve already been broken by one man who couldn’t handle you. I won’t be the next.”

My chest heaves. Anger and hurt tangle, a storm too big to hold in. “Stop deciding for me!” The words rip out, sharper than I expect. “First Gabriel, now you! You both think you get to choose what I can or can’t handle. Maybe I’m stronger than you think.”

His expression flickers, but he doesn’t back down. He steps closer, heat radiating off him, his voice dropping to a growl. “Strong? You nearly died in my arms, Paris. Do you think I didn’t feel it? The bond tearing at me while you bled all over my shirt? If I claim you now, I’ll ruin you.”

The air between us crackles. My heart pounds, my body caught between fury and the traitorous urge to close the last inch between us.

I shove the quilt aside and push to my feet, swaying, but refusing to back down.

My legs tremble, but the fire in my chest keeps me standing.

“You don’t get to tell me what will ruin me.

Fate already tried. Gabriel already did.

If this bond is real, if it’s my second chance, then I should get a say in it. ”

For a moment, we just breathe each other in. His chest rises and falls, muscles taut, eyes dark. I can see it, the fight inside him, the beast clawing to break free.

Then he exhales hard, dragging a hand through his hair, stepping back like he needs the distance to breathe. “You don’t understand. You still believe in the Goddess. In fate. I don’t. Not anymore.”

His words hit me like a slap. My throat tightens, the fight draining out of me as fast as it came. I sink back to the bed, staring at my thighs as I twist the fabric of his t-shirt in my hands.

“Then maybe we’re both fools,” I whisper.

The fire pops in the silence that follows. His breathing slows, but his eyes never leave me.

Finally, he mutters, “You need food.”

It’s such a jarring shift I blink. “Food?”

“Yeah.” He’s already moving toward the stove, grabbing a cast-iron pot, tossing wood into the firebox. “You’re weak. You need something in your stomach.”

I almost laugh. We’ve just torn into each other with words sharp enough to draw blood, and now he’s cooking.

But as the scent of venison and herbs fill the cabin, something in me softens. He moves with quiet efficiency, every motion controlled, his broad back turned to me like the argument didn’t just strip us bare.

He ladles stew into a bowl and brings it to me, setting it on the little table by the bed. “Eat.”

His tone is gruff, almost rude. But when my hands tremble lifting the spoon, he notices. He kneels beside me, steadying the bowl, his big, scarred hand brushing mine.

The bond hums, sharp and sweet, making me flush.

I eat in silence, every bite grounding me, every accidental graze of his fingers setting me on fire. He doesn’t look at me, and he doesn’t speak, but his presence fills the room so completely it’s hard to breathe.

When the bowl is empty, he takes it from me, rising without a word. I watch his shoulders tense as he sets it down, like even this simple act costs him something. The fight is over, but the tension isn’t. It simmers between us, hot and dangerous, waiting for the next spark.

And I know with a sinking, terrifying certainty, this is only the beginning.