Page 32 of Lost in Fire

“Special treatment,” I observe, keeping my voice level. “Should I be flattered?”

Creed laughs coldly. “You should be terrified. The Shadowhand doesn’t typically waste time on small fish unless she’s planning something particularly creative.”

If only you knew.

But I let confusion show in my expression instead. A man facing transfer to the Syndicate’s most feared interrogator should look worried. Should show the appropriate fear of someone about to face a fate worse than death.

Should not feel his heart racing with anticipation.

Should not be remembering the sensation of silken skin beneath his fingertips.

“Well,” I say, standing slowly. “I suppose I’ll find out what she wants.”

“Oh, you will.” He moves closer, his smile turning predatory. “I wonder what makes you so unique, Cole. What makes the Shadowhand request a private session with a disgraced handler?” His voice drops. “Maybe she has something particularly interesting planned for you.”

“Maybe that’s it,” I say, noncommittal. I’m not going to play this little game with him. “When am I seeing her?” I ask, changing the subject.

“Now.” He gestures to the guards, but his eyes never leave my face. “Get dressed. And Cole? Whatever secret you’re hiding, she’ll find it. The Shadowhand always does.”

I pull on the standard prisoner uniform—gray cotton that feels rough against skin still sensitized by nightmares.

“Get a move on, man,” Creed snaps, glancing down at his watch. “I’ve got better things to do than stand around waiting for you to get your act together.”

“Just collecting my thoughts,” I respond.

“Collect them faster.” He grins. “Not that it’ll make any difference. You’re screwed either way.”

I don’t answer, just take a jolting step forward as someone shoves me from behind. The guards move to flank me as we leave the cell, the door clanging shut behind us. The corridors give way to transport elevators, then progressively more secure zones as we descend deeper into the building’s foundation. Each checkpoint requires additional authorization. Each level carries more weight of magical wards designed to contain things that shouldn’t exist.

The air grows colder as we approach the Shadowhand’s domain. Traces of ancient power thicken around us—magic old enough to predate the current Syndicate hierarchy. Old enough to remember when the bloodline wars were fought with fire and fang instead of politics and purification protocols.

I recognize the energy immediately. The same power that surrounded Vanya during our most intimate moments, when her dragon heritage would surface and her eyes would shift from blue to molten gold. When she would whisper my name in languages that existed before recorded history.

The final checkpoint stands before massive steel doors marked with symbols I recognize from my handler training. Containment sigils. Wards designed to prevent magical escape or communication with the outside world.

Perfect privacy for the conversation that will hopefully answer decades of questions.

Creed pauses at the threshold, turning back with smug satisfaction. “Last chance to confess whatever you’re hiding, Cole. The Shadowhand doesn’t offer mercy.”

I meet his gaze steadily. Let just a hint of fear show—enough to satisfy his expectations without undermining my cover. “I’ve told you everything I can.”

“We’ll see.” He gestures to the guards. “Transfer is complete. The Shadowhand will take custody from here.”

The massive doors swing open, revealing corridors lined with interrogation chambers and private offices. Each door bears numbers and status indicators. Most show green—available. One shows red—occupied.

“Chamber Seven,” the lead guard announces, steering me toward the active indicator.

My mouth goes dry as we approach. Each step feels heavier than the last, my body remembering what my mind refuses to acknowledge: that I’m about to face the woman I’ve mourned for two decades. My heartbeat drums against my ribs like it’s trying to escape, and I focus on keeping my breathing steady. Can’t let Creed see how much this affects me. But for reasons he couldn’t even begin to imagine.

The guard stops beside the marked door. “The Shadowhand is waiting.”

I nod, squaring my shoulders one final time. The nightmare’s flames still dance behind my eyelids—memory and symbol and warning all twisted together. But beneath the fear and anticipation, something stirs to life. Something I’d thought had been suffocated by grief and sealed away behind years of careful indifference.

Curiosity.

The need to understand what could drive a woman to fake her death, to hide our child, to orchestrate this moment after so many years of silence. What shaped the Vanya I loved into the Shadowhand who rules with fear. And whether anything of us remains worth salvaging.

The door handle turns cold beneath my palm.

---