Page 75 of Forged in Fire
I roll over, pressing my face into the pillow to muffle the sob that wants to escape. The grief sits like lead in my chest, heavier than anything I’ve ever carried. Heavier even than losing Kieran, because at least then I had hope. Had a mission. Had something to fight for.
Now I have nothing but the memory of silver-blue eyes and the way he said my name in that rough voice before everything went to hell.
The shadows in my room shift slightly, and I freeze.
Those aren’t my shadows.
Something’s different. The quality of darkness has changed, like there’s a presence where there wasn’t before. My dragon senses prickle with awareness.
Someone is in here with me.
I turn my head slowly, hardly daring to breathe, and my heart stops completely.
Riven sits in the chair beside my window, moonlight turning his hair to silver and casting sharp shadows across his face.
For a moment, I can’t move. Can’t think. Can’t do anything but stare at the impossible sight of him sitting there like he belongs, like he never left, like my world didn’t shatter twenty-four hours ago.
“This can’t be real,” I whisper.
His lips curve in that subtle half-smile I know so well. “Real enough.”
“God! Oh my God, Riven?” I still can’t believe it. He’s sitting so unnervingly still that he could be part of the shadows.
“I’m here,” he says softly.
I’m out of bed before I realize what I’m doing, crossing the space between us in three quick strides. My hands find his face, fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw, the familiar scar over his eyebrow, the warmth of skin that should be cold and dead.
“How?” The word comes out broken. “How are you here?”
“I told you I’d find you.” His hands cover mine, press my palms against his cheeks. “I willalwaysfind you.” There’s an intensity to his eyes that almost scares me.
“I thought you were dead.” The words crack in the middle, and suddenly I’m shaking. The grief and terror and desperate hope of the last day crash over me like a wave. “I thought I’d lost you before I ever really had you.”
Something flickers in his eyes—surprise, maybe, or recognition.
“Iris.” He groans my name, and then his mouth is on mine, desperate and demanding, and I’m kissing him back with everything I have. All the fear and relief and need I’ve been drowning in pour out through my lips, my hands, the way I press against him like I can somehow merge us together so he can never leave again.
He tastes like danger and promises, like everything I’ve been missing without knowing it. When his hands tangle in my hair, when he stands and backs me toward the bed without breaking the kiss, I let him. I’d let him do anything right now as long as it means he’s real and alive and here.
“I need you,” I whisper against his mouth, the words torn from somewhere deep in my chest. “I need to feel that you’re really here.”
“I’m here.” His voice is rough, strained with the same desperate hunger that’s clawing at my insides. “I’m here, Iris.”
His hands find the hem of my sleep shirt, and I lift my arms to let him pull it over my head. The fabric whispers as it hits the floor, but all I can focus on is the way he looks at me—like I’m something precious and dangerous and perfect all at once.
When his mouth traces down my throat, when his hands cup my breasts, I press into him with a gasp. Dragon fire meets dragon fire, and everything else disappears except the heat building between us.
“I want you,” he says hoarsely, fingers dancing along my skin, want burning in his eyes.
Instead of answering with words, I reach for the buttons of his shirt, working them open with hands that shake slightly. He lets me, watching my face with an intensity that makes my breath catch as I push the fabric off his shoulders.
The moonlight reveals what the darkness had hidden, and I gasp.
Fresh bruises bloom across his ribs in shades of purple and black. Raw cuts crisscross his torso, some still dark with dried blood.
“Jesus, Riven.” My fingers hover over the damage, afraid to cause more pain. “What did they do to you?”
“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” he says, catching my wrist when I reach toward a particularly vicious gash along his shoulder.
