Page 32 of Fired Up Love

Near the empty main basin, something caught Zina’s eye—a slip of parchment, its edges blackened as though someone had attempted to burn it after dropping it. She knelt to examine it, her nostrils flaring at the unfamiliar scent clinging to the paper.

The elegant handwriting contrasted starkly with the violent message:

...restoration of the rightful flame to Madrigal hands will rebalance what was stolen. The thief’s blood must be?—

The rest had burned away, leaving Zina with a chilling fragment of what appeared to be a much larger threat. She tucked the parchment carefully into her pocket, then continued her investigation.

In the northeast corner of the pool room, where decorative flooring had been ripped up, she noticed something peculiar. Beneath the modern tiles lay far older stonework carved with symbols she didn’t recognize but which stirred something in her memory. Her mother had been adamant about building in this exact location, overriding the architect’s concerns about foundation costs.

“The energy converges here,” she’d insisted. “The water wants to flow through this spot.”

Zina traced the strange markings with her fingertips, a sense of connection to her mother washing over her. Whatever secret lay beneath the spa, Severin Madrigal wanted it badly enough to declare open war.

The chime of the front door interrupted her thoughts. Bryn marched in carrying three color-coded plastic bins stacked on top of each other, a leather-bound binder tucked under one arm, and somehow balancing two coffee cups. Her eyes widened as she took in the destruction.

“Sweet mercy,” she breathed, setting everything down on a miraculously intact bench. “When you said trashed, I thought maybe graffiti or broken windows. This is...”

“A message,” Zina finished, accepting the coffee Bryn handed her. The first sip scalded her tongue, but she welcomed the bitter strength. “A very clear one.”

Bryn opened the binder—”Supernatural Disaster Response” written in her meticulous handwriting across the cover—and began flipping through tabbed sections.

“Flood damage, fire damage, magical backlash, territorial marking... ah, here we go. ‘Intentional Vandalism by Rival Faction.’“ She looked up at Zina with determined brown eyes. “I made this binder after you hired me. My brother says I’m paranoid, but...”

“But apparently not paranoid enough.” Zina squeezed Bryn’s shoulder, grateful beyond words for her assistant’s thoroughness. “You’re amazing.”

“I know.” Bryn smiled, some tension leaving her shoulders. “The green bin has cleaning supplies, blue is for temporary security measures, and red contains emergency marketing materials to keep clients from panicking.”

“But what I don’t understand is how I didn’t hear when all of this was happening. I live upstairs.”

“That’s easy,” Bryn answered. “Magical noise suppression. No one on the other side of the glass would hear a thing if the spell was strong enough.”

“Never thought of that.” Even though Severin was a shifter, he could find a way to cast spells. “You think of everything.”

“Not everything.” Bryn’s expression turned sly as she leaned closer. “So... how exactly does dragon kissing work? Do you need fireproof lip balm? Because those scorch marks on our reception desk look suspicious.”

THIRTY-TWO

Heat flooded Zina’s cheeks, her coffee sputtering as she choked mid-swallow. “Bryn! That’s not—we didn’t?—”

“Relax, boss.” Bryn’s eyes danced with mischief. “Your blushing tells me way more than your denials.”

“We kissed. Once.” Zina dabbed at the coffee she’d spilled on her shirt, knowing her cheeks had turned traitorously red. “And no, I don’t need fireproof anything. He has perfect control.”

“Perfect control? That’s disappointing.” Bryn waggled her eyebrows suggestively. “I was hoping for tales of passionate spontaneous combustion.”

“Can we please focus on the disaster at hand?” Zina gestured to the destruction around them, though she couldn’t quite suppress the smile tugging at her lips. “Instead of my nonexistent love life?”

“Fine, but this conversation isn’t over.” Bryn pulled on rubber gloves with a theatrical snap.

Before Zina could formulate a suitable retort, the front door chimed again. Artemis Blu bustled in with pink bakery boxes and a determined expression, her golden hair escaping from a messy bun atop her head.

“I stress-baked,” she announced, setting the boxes on the cleanest surface she could find. “Figured you could use comfort carbs.”

She flipped open the top box to reveal an array of pastries: delicate fruit tarts topped with glazed berries in the shape of a lion’s paw print, and cinnamon rolls that emitted small puffs of actual steam.

“Lion’s Pride tarts and Dragon’s Breath cinnamon rolls.” Artemis winked at Zina. “Made the latter extra spicy, just how dragons like their... food. Though I hear they develop quite a taste for lioness once they’ve sampled it.”

Zina groaned, burying her face in her hands even as her traitorous stomach growled. “Not you too.”

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