Page 33 of Fated to the Lone Shifter
Sleep takes me before I can stop it.
The forest circle shimmers into view, half-woven from mist and moonlight. Each stone pulses with its own rhythm, as if responding to a heartbeat not quite my own. Silver threads of magic stretch between them, forming a perfect spiral that glows faintly in the dark—neither fire nor light, but something older. Elemental. Magical.
The air inside the circle is different. Denser. Charged. It tastes of ash and wildflower, ozone and something metallic, like the moment before lightning strikes. The trees don’t move, but I feel them watching. Each leaf, each limb, humming with quiet reverence as power gathers.
At the center, the dirt is scorched black, but warm to the touch. Ancient symbols flicker across its surface, drawn in heat, never ink. Flames coil just beneath the soil, slumbering serpents of energy.
When I step inside, the boundary seals behind me with a breath of wind. No exit. No retreat.
Only magic.
This isn’t the real circle, of course—not exactly. In dreams, everything pulses with a strange kind of clarity. Sharper. Wilder. Moretrue. The moon overhead is too big, the air too charged, like it’s crackling with power just waiting to be released.
I’m standing barefoot in the scorched earth at the center of the circle. The earth is warm beneath my toes, pulsing like a heartbeat. My skin glows. Magic hums beneath the surface, alive and electric.
He steps out from between the trees.
Noah.
But not the buttoned-up trainer or the growling alpha who watches me with suspicion. This version of him is fire incarnate—shirtless, wild-eyed, his chest rising and falling like he’s been running. Or hunting.
His gaze locks onto mine and everything inside me tightens.
“You called me,” he says.
I can’t speak. Can’t move. He’s not walking—he’s stalking, closing the distance like a predator scenting prey.
When he touches me, the world erupts in flame.
His hand grips my waist, pulling me flush against him, and the contact steals my breath. Gods, he’s solid. Real. Burning hot. My fingers slide up his shoulders, nails biting into muscle as my body molds to his like it was made for this.
His lips crash into mine—hungry, demanding, primal. I taste ash and want and something older than either of us. Power. I kiss him back just as fiercely, our tongues tangling like we’re starved and only this will satisfy.
I should push him away. I should remember the mission. The danger. The fact that he might be the arsonist I’m here to take down.
But I don’t.
Because right now, I don’t feel like a witch or a spy or a probie firefighter. I feel like a woman being claimed by the one man who could burn me down—and I’m inviting him in.
When he lifts me, I gasp, clinging to him as he carries me to the warm earth. I wrap my legs around his waist, anchoring myself to him, surrendering to the heat that pulses betweenus. The glowing symbols beneath us flicker brighter, like they recognize what’s happening—like theyapprove.
He lays me down gently, reverently, but the hunger in his eyes is anything but gentle. He hovers above me, breath ragged. “You’re mine,” he growls, voice low and rough with possession.
“Yes,” I whisper, because I can’t deny it anymore. Not to him. Not to myself.
When he enters me, it’s slow. Deep. Like he’s imprinting on my soul. I cry out, legs tightening around him, nails digging into his back as our bodies become one. The rhythm we fall into is ancient, elemental—fire and earth, instinct and need.
Each thrust stokes the fire inside me higher. The heat, the friction, the way his mouth trails along my neck—it’s everything. I rise to meet him again and again, our magic weaving together with every movement.
My body spirals toward the edge, aching, burning, needing—
“Noah,” I pant. “Don’t stop.”
“Fuck, Sera,” he groans, thrusts deepening.
We shatter together. I cry out his name, his curse echoing mine, as the world around us fades into white-hot bliss. For one infinite moment, there is only sensation, only the sacred tangle of our magic and desire.
After, he collapses beside me, his hand still clutching mine, our bodies slick with sweat and something more—something ancient.
