Page 25 of Born in Fire

My last conscious thought is that Dorian’s presence doesn’t feel like an invasion of my carefully constructed fortress.

It feels like coming home.

Chapter 8

Dorian

I’ve been awake for hours, watching Juno sleep against my chest. Her breathing has a rhythm that’s become as familiar as my own—deep and even, with occasional hitches when she dreams.

The weight of her body against mine feels both foreign and inevitable. Her scent—herbal shampoo, faded perfume, and something I’m now certain is rosemary—has embedded itself in my senses.

This isn’t you. You don’t do this shit.

Hundred years of existence, and I’ve never spent an entire night just holding someone. Sex, sure. Plenty of that. But this—this quiet intimacy, this protective vigil—this is uncharted territory.

Dawn hasn’t broken yet. Seattle’s perpetual cloud cover makes the night stretch longer, the faint glow of street lamps filtering through Juno’s curtains casting everything in soft focus. Herapartment reveals more of her than she’s verbally shared—watercolor paintings leaning against walls, books about art and astronomy stacked on coffee tables, herbs growing in every available window space.

My arm went numb hours ago where she’s nestled against it, but I haven’t moved. Can’t bring myself to disturb her. Not after last night. The memory of her panic—the way her body had trembled, her breathing shallow and quick, eyes wide with genuine fear—stirs something in my chest. Something that wants to hurt whoever scared her like that.

I’ll fucking kill the bastard.

Which is another thing I don’t understand. I’m possessive about territory, about clan assets, about family. Not about women I barely know.

The clock on her wall reads 4:37 a.m. I should leave before she wakes. That would be the respectful thing to do—slip away, text her later, pretend this night of vulnerability never happened. Return to the script I’ve perfected over centuries: charming pursuit, mutual pleasure, clean exit.

Moving with exaggerated care, I try to shift her weight off my chest. Her apartment is silent enough that each rustle of the blanket sounds thunderous to my ears.

“Mmm, don’t go.” Her voice, thick with sleep, stops me cold. Her fingers curl into my shirt, surprisingly strong. “Stay.”

My body responds instantly to her touch, to the sleepy command in her voice. Heat floods my veins, and I have to focus to keep my temperature normal. Another strange reaction—I never have trouble controlling my dragon traits.

“Hey,” I say softly, brushing hair from her face. “How are you feeling?”

She blinks up at me, eyes still heavy-lidded. In the dim light, with her defenses down, she looks younger, softer. Vulnerable in a way that makes my chest ache.

“I’m okay.” She stretches slightly, her body pressing against mine in ways that make it difficult to focus. “Sorry about last night.”

“Don’t apologize.” My voice comes out hoarse.

She studies my face, suddenly more awake. “You stayed.”

“I said I would.”

“Most men wouldn’t have.”

“I’m not most men.” The cliché slips out before I can stop it, but her smile tells me she doesn’t mind.

“No,” she agrees, shifting to face me more fully. “You’re not.”

Something changes in the air between us. Her heart rate increases—I can hear it, which wouldn’t be possible with human ears. Her pupils dilate, her scent shifts subtly. My body responds with immediate, almost painful intensity as my balls pull tight.

“Juno,” I begin, not sure what I’m going to say. Warn her? Ask permission? Beg?

She answers by pressing her lips to mine.

The kiss is different from our previous one—softer, yet somehow more deliberate. My hands hover at her waist, hesitating. After last night’s panic attack, is this really what she wants? Or is this some kind of reaction to fear, to vulnerability?

She pulls back slightly, reading my hesitation. “I know what I’m doing,” she whispers. “I want this. I want you.”

---