Page 8 of Fire's Storm
Seven years climbing the ranks in this department, proving I could maintain absolute control in situations that sent others into panic. Now I couldn't even control the electrical discharge from my own fingertips. As a captain, I make life-or-death decisions daily. But for the first time since earning my rank, I'm not in command of the situation—or of myself.
The worst part—the part I barely admit to myself—is that beneath the fear lies exhilaration. Power surges through my veins with each new manifestation, bringing with it a rush that makes every other adrenaline high in my life pale by comparison. Part of me—a growing part—doesn't want this to stop.
That terrifies me more than any hovering water or electrical surge.
Worse than the physical changes, I can't stop the dreams. Vivid, erotic visions plague my nights and intrude on my thoughts during waking hours. In my dreams, the mysterious man with electric blue eyes looms over me, powerful and protective. His hands, larger than any human male's should be, caress my body with shocking tenderness, leaving trails of pleasurable electricity wherever they touch.
Last night's dream had been the most intense yet. I was pinned beneath his massive frame, his midnight-blue scales shimmering in moonlight as he claimed me.
"You control the storm now," he'd growled against my throat, fangs grazing my pulse point. "Direct it where you will."
In the dream, my hands had moved to his shoulders, fingers digging into scaled flesh as lightning formed aroundus, responding to my commands rather than just his. We created tempests together, his volatile power and my precision combining to direct atmospheric forces beyond what either could manifest alone.
The partnership felt right—not submission, not dominance, but balance. His volatile power tempered by my precision. My untrained abilities focused by his ancient knowledge.
I woke sweating, skin crackling with actual electricity, the sheets around me singed where energy had discharged during sleep. The dream had been so vivid that for several disorienting moments, I expected to find him beside me, expected to feel his scales beneath my fingertips, expected to smell his distinctive scent on my skin.
The emptiness of my bed had triggered physical pain—a hollowness in my chest, an ache in my bones, a sense of wrongness so profound I'd actually cried out.
Three cold showers and a punishing five-mile run did nothing to ease the burning need that has become my constant companion.
This can't be normal. This obsession with a creature I met once. This constant electrical buildup that no amount of grounding can discharge. This feeling that something vital is missing, that I am incomplete without him.
Yet even as my rational mind rejects these feelings as impossible, unnatural, my body sings with recognition. With certainty. With need that grows stronger by the hour.
The scent memories are the most confusing new development. I've never had a particularly sensitive nose, but now I catch hints of him everywhere—ozone, electricity, storm-charged air, and something darker, muskier that makes my mouth water and electrical energy build beneath my skin.
I could taste ozone in the air, feel the electrical potential building in storm clouds miles away, sense atmosphericpressure changes that no human should detect. I approached the storm energy like I would a tactical situation—assess, strategize, command. But this power responded to intuition rather than orders, to connection rather than control.
My sense of smell has sharpened in other ways too. I can identify each crew member before they enter a room. I know which ones smoked during break, which ones skipped shower after workout, which ones recently had sex. It's too much information, too intimate, too... inhuman.
Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I swear I can feel his need for me—a dark, electric current that stretches across the miles between us. The sensation is so vivid, it triggers an almost painful skin-hunger—a need for physical contact so intense, it makes my entire body ache with emptiness.
Is this what madness feels like? This slow dissolution of everything I thought I knew about myself? About reality?
"You look like shit, Cap," Burns comments, jolting me from my thoughts.
I blink, focusing on my second-in-command leaning against my office doorframe. How long has he been standing there? How long have I been staring into space, lost in memories of scales and electrical storms?
"Thanks for the update," I snap, the words sharper than intended. I immediately regret it when Burns's eyebrows rise in surprise. He's a good second-in-command, loyal and competent. Doesn't deserve my shortened temper. "Sorry. Not sleeping well."
That much is true, if incomplete. My temper has been hair-trigger since the incident, emotions fluctuating wildly beyond my usual iron control.
Burns steps into my office, closing the door behind him. The concern in his weathered face makes something twist in my chest. Guilt, maybe. These men trust me with their lives. I've ledthem through fires that would make most crews turn back. Now I'm keeping secrets that could endanger them all.
"Maybe take some leave," he suggests, voice gentler than his gruff exterior usually allows. "You've been through hell lately."
You have no idea.
I nod noncommittally, turning back to the maps and reports spread across my desk. I've been researching similar anomalies—fires behaving impossibly, geometric patterns in burn zones, temperature readings off the charts. Evidence that what I experienced wasn't isolated, wasn't imagined.
My assessment naturally categorizes information into patterns, creating mental checklists of related incidents as I would during emergency response. I find myself scanning for defensive positions and escape routes, even in the familiar confines of my own office—professional habits transferring to personal crisis.
"I'm fine," I say, the lie bitter on my tongue. "Just need to finish this analysis."
Burns doesn't leave. Instead, he moves closer, studying the maps I've been marking. His scent reaches me—coffee, smoke from this morning's training burn, the faint musk of male human. Not unpleasant, but utterly lacking the electric tang that would identify him as... what? Compatible? Storm-touched?
The foreign thoughts that intrude with increasing frequency unsettle me more than the physical changes. They feel alien yet familiar, like memories from a past life surfacing at random moments.
