Chapter 3 Fire Does Not Ask Permission
Alaric Nightfall did not leave.
He stood there, framed by my doorway like he belonged in the shadows he carried with him, calm as if he hadn’t just upended my entire world by walking into it. His presence filled the room—not loudly, not aggressively, but with the kind of certainty that made everything else feel smaller by comparison.
I hated that my body noticed.
Hated that my pulse had settled into a strange, anticipatory rhythm instead of panic. Hated the heat blooming low in my stomach that had nothing to do with dragonfire.
“Understanding me isn’t your right,” I said evenly.
“No,” he replied. “It’s my responsibility.”
I laughed softly, humorless. “That’s what people say when they plan to justify something awful.”
His gaze sharpened. “You think I enjoy this?”
I met his stare without flinching. “I think you’ve convinced yourself it doesn’t matter.”
Silence stretched between us, thick with unsaid things. I felt the dragon shift inside me, not restless—curious. Observing. Measuring him the way he measured me.
Alaric took a step farther into the room.
Not toward me.
Toward Lio.
I moved instantly, blocking his path again, heart slamming hard enough to bruise. “Don’t.”
His eyes flicked down to my hand braced against his chest before I realized I’d placed it there.
The contact hit like a spark to dry tinder.
Heat flared beneath my palm—my magic responding to proximity, to threat, to him. His chest was solid beneath my fingers, warmth bleeding through the leather, his breath hitching just barely enough that I noticed.
So did he.
I snatched my hand back, curling my fingers into a fist.
“I’m not here for the boy,” he said quietly. “If I were, the Council would already know about him.”
That chilled me more than any threat.
“You didn’t report this,” I said.
“Not yet.”
“Why?”
His jaw tightened, muscle jumping. “Because what you carry isn’t behaving the way it should.”
I lifted my chin. “Maybe your Council doesn’t know everything.”
A corner of his mouth curved—not amusement, not quite approval. “No,” he said softly. “They don’t.”
He stepped back at last, giving me space. The loss of his proximity was abrupt, like a held breath released too soon.
“You healed him,” he continued, glancing at Lio again. “Dragon magic is not meant for gentleness.”
“Maybe it’s never had reason to be gentle before,” I shot back.
That earned me his full attention.
“Everything about you is wrong,” he said, not accusing—observing. “Your magic doesn’t rage. It doesn’t consume. It listens.”
I swallowed. I hadn’t put words to it myself, but he was right. The power inside me didn’t feel like a weapon. It felt like potential. Like something waiting for my permission.
The dragon stirred in agreement.
“I didn’t ask for this,” I said quietly. “But I won’t apologize for using it to protect my family.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to.”
Something in his tone shifted—subtle, but unmistakable. Respect. And that scared me far more than disdain ever could.
I crossed my arms, grounding myself. “So what now? You drag me in chains to the High Council and collect your reward?”
His gaze lingered on my face, slow and searching, as if committing me to memory. “If I do that, they’ll kill you.”
“I assumed as much.”
“And then they’ll spend centuries trying to control the dragon bond they don’t understand.”
My stomach tightened. “You sound like that bothers you.”
“It does.”
I studied him then—not as an enforcer, not as a threat, but as a man standing in a slum room with a dying boy and a girl the world had failed.
“You’re hesitating,” I said.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
His eyes darkened, something turbulent flickering behind them. “Because I’ve spent my life eliminating dangers the Council named for me. And every instinct tells me you’re not one of them.”
The words settled heavily between us.
“Instincts can be wrong,” I said.
“They can,” he agreed. “But they rarely lie.”
Another silence stretched—this one charged, intimate. I was suddenly aware of how close we still were, of how the air seemed to hum faintly between us. The dragon watched, amused and attentive, like a predator sensing an unexpected shift in the hunt.
“You should go,” I said again, softer now. “If they’re already searching, you staying puts us both at risk.”
“Leaving you here unprotected is also a risk.”
“I’m not helpless.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
His gaze dipped briefly, tracing the line of my throat, the rise and fall of my chest. Heat curled low in my belly, sharp and unwelcome—and undeniable.
“I can protect myself,” I said firmly.
“I don’t doubt that.” His voice lowered. “But there are things coming that raw power alone won’t stop.”
I held his gaze, pulse thudding. “Then what do you suggest?”
A slow exhale. A decision settling behind his eyes.
“For now,” he said, “I don’t report you.”
“For now,” I echoed. “And later?”
“Later,” he said, “we see whether you burn the world—or force it to change.”
The words should have terrified me.
Instead, they thrilled something deep and dangerous inside my chest.
“You don’t get to decide my fate,” I said quietly.
“No,” he agreed, eyes locking onto mine. “But I might help you survive it.”
The dragon purred, a low, satisfied hum beneath my ribs.
I watched Alaric Nightfall turn toward the door, every movement controlled, restrained, as if walking away from me cost him something.
Just before he left, he paused.
“Serina,” he said.
Hearing my name on his lips sent a shiver down my spine.
“They will come for you,” he continued. “Sooner than you think.”
“I know.”
His gaze lingered on me one last time—dark, conflicted, burning with things neither of us were ready to name.
“Be ready,” he said.
Then he was gone.
The room felt emptier without him. Quieter. More dangerous in its stillness.
I sank down beside Lio, pressing a hand to my chest where heat still pulsed steadily. I didn’t know what I’d just done—who I’d just drawn into my orbit—but I knew this much with unshakable certainty:
Alaric Nightfall was not finished with me.
And whatever was building between us—magic, tension, desire—it was only just beginning to burn.