Page 22 of Curvy Girl and the Single Dad Dragon
A smile tugs at his lips. "Yes, but it's not quite as simple as turning on an internal furnace. Using our fire requires focus and energy. It's not something we do casually, especially around flammable objects."
My curiosity piques. "So, you can control it completely? The fire?"
"With practice and discipline, yes. Ember is still learning, but I have centuries of control."
"What does it feel like?" I ask, genuinely interested. "When you breathe fire?"
"It's difficult to describe to someone who hasn't experienced it. There's a heat that builds here," he touches his sternum, "a pressure that rises up through the chest and throat. When it'sreleased, there's a moment of intense heat followed by a sense of... liberation, I suppose. It's natural, like breathing or blinking, but also powerful."
I try to imagine the sensation but can't quite grasp it. Another shiver runs through me despite the blanket.
Damon leans forward slightly. "Would you like to see something?" he asks, his voice lower than before.
"See what?"
"A demonstration," he says. "Something small, controlled. It might help you understand."
My heart rate picks up with excitement and a touch of nervousness. "Yes, I'd like that."
He holds out his palm, flat and open between us. "Watch."
I lean forward, eyes fixed on his hand. For a moment, nothing happens. Then I notice a subtle change in his breathing—deeper, more rhythmic. His golden eyes seem to brighten, an inner light kindling behind them.
A small flame appears in the center of his palm, no larger than a candle flame but brighter, more intense. It doesn't burn his skin or flicker like a normal fire would. Instead, it holds its shape, glowing with a golden-orange light that pulses gently, almost like a heartbeat.
"Oh," I breathe, mesmerized by the beautiful, impossible flame dancing in his hand.
"Dragon fire is different from ordinary fire," he explains softly. "We can control its heat, its intensity, even its duration."
As he speaks, I notice something even more remarkable. Tiny embers rise from the flame, floating upward like sparks, but they don't extinguish. Instead, they hover around his head like aconstellation of miniature stars, some settling briefly in his dark hair without burning it.
"It's beautiful," I whisper, transfixed by the display.
The flame in his palm pulses once more, then gradually diminishes until it's gone, though the floating embers remain for several seconds longer, casting a warm glow across his features before they too fade away.
In that moment, with the last golden lights reflecting in his eyes, Damon Thorne doesn't look human at all. He looks ancient and powerful and utterly magnificent.
And I realize, with a certainty that should frighten me but somehow doesn't, that I'm in serious danger of falling for a 639-year-old dragon.
Chapter 8 - Damon
The soft wonder in Luna's eyes as she watches the last embers fade strikes something deep within me. Something I haven't felt in decades, perhaps centuries. A recognition. A resonance.
Dragon lore speaks of fated mates. Souls that recognize each other across species, across time. I've always dismissed such notions as romantic folklore, the kind of stories young dragons tell each other during long winter nights. Yet looking at Luna now, her face illuminated by the dying glow of my fire, I feel a pull that defies rational explanation.
Which is utterly, monumentally stupid.
I'm 639 years old. She's 24. I'm a dragon. She's human. I've witnessed empires rise and fall, survived plagues and wars and witch hunts. She's barely begun her life, hasn't even established her career. The gap between us isn't just wide. It's an unbridgeable chasm.
And yet.
If six centuries have taught me anything, it's that time is precious regardless of how much you have. I've watched countless humans live their brief, brilliant lives—creating art, building families, changing their world in ways great and small. Their mortality doesn't diminish their significance; it enhances it. Every moment matters precisely because there are so few of them.
Luna's presence in my life, in Ember's life, will be temporary by dragon standards. A heartbeat. A blink. Even if she stays for years, eventually she'll age while I remain unchanged. Eventually, like all humans, she'll be gone. I hate having that thought.
"What are you thinking?" she asks softly, breaking the silence that has fallen between us. "You look... troubled."
I consider deflecting, giving some partial truth about dragon fire or magic. But something about the openness in her expression compels honesty.
