Page 31 of Lost in Fire

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” I turn away before my smugness betrays me.

Chapter 12

Hargen

The dream starts gentle… Vanya lies beside me in soft morning light, her hair like pale spun silk catching the light. Younger. More alive. Her blue eyes hold warmth instead of winter, and when she smiles, it’s the private expression she saves only for me—vulnerable and real and completely unguarded.

“Stay,” she whispers, her fingers trailing the binding sigil across my shoulders. “Just a little longer.”

I should resist. Know I should. The Syndicate doesn’t allow handlers personal attachments, and loving an Arrowvane bloodline heir is treason beyond redemption. But her touch burns away every logical protest, every learned response. In this stolen moment, nothing exists except her skin against mine and the way she breathes my name.

“Always,” I murmur against her throat, tasting salt and loving woman. “Whatever comes, I’ll always—”

The door explodes inward.

Syndicate security floods our sanctuary, their weapons reflecting light off polished steel. Creed leads them, his scaled features twisted with satisfaction as he surveys our entangled bare limbs. Behind him, figures in ceremonial robes carry the tools of ritual purification—chains, binding symbols, the chemical accelerants that burn hotter than ordinary fire.

“Vanya Arrowvane.” His voice rings with formal judgment. “You stand accused of bloodline corruption. Of willful defilement of ancient purity.”

She doesn’t struggle as they drag her from our bed. Doesn’t scream or plead or look to me for rescue. Her chin lifts with that familiar aristocratic pride, ice returning to her gaze as she transforms back into what she was born to be—nobility accepting the consequences of rebellion.

But her eyes find mine. Hold them. And in that final moment of connection, I see everything she’s sacrificing laid bare.

I love you,her expression says.Remember that. When this is over, remember that I chose you.

I fight then. Rage against the hands holding me down, roar her name until my throat bleeds. But the bonds are too strong, the magic too absolute. They force me to watch as they chain her to the ceremonial stake. Force me to witness as they pour liquid flame around her bare feet.

“Hargen.” She speaks my name once, soft as silk. Then the fires rise.

She burns.

Burns while I watch, helpless and screaming. Her perfect skin blisters and chars. Her hair ignites like a torch. But her eyes—those impossibly blue eyes—never leave mine. Even as the flames consume her completely, she watches me with love and forgiveness and something that might be relief.

The smell reaches me last. Burned flesh and chemical smoke and the copper tang of my own blood where I’ve bitten through my tongue.

She’s gone.

Twenty-one years of gone, and I—

“Cole. Wake up. Now.”

The voice cuts through flame and memory, dragging me back to concrete reality. My body jerks upright on the narrow cot, heart thundering a frantic rhythm. Sweat plasters my hair to my skull. My hands shake as I grip the thin mattress, grounding myself in its scratchy texture.

A dream. Just a dream.

Except it wasn’t. Not entirely.

Because most of it happened.

Creed stands in my cell doorway, his reptilian features arranged in that sickening smirk that makes my skin crawl. Behind him, two guards wait with the patient stillness of professional muscle.

“Bad dream?” His tone almost makes me wonder if he knows what I was seeing. “Guilty conscience, perhaps?”

I force my breathing to steady. Piece together the careful mask of control I’ve perfected over decades of service. “What’s the situation, sir?”

“Your situation just got very interesting.” He steps fully into the cell, invading my space with deliberate intimidation. “The Shadowhand wants you transferred to her private facility.”

The name makes heat flood my veins despite the sweat still cooling on my skin. The Shadowhand. Vanya. The woman whose dream-death still burns behind my eyelids, now orchestrating our reunion from the highest levels of Syndicate hierarchy.

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