The Ember Veil pulsed like a lover's heart, its obsidian walls slick with the breath of a thousand souls lost to ecstasy. Enchanted torches flared with violet flame, their light catching on sweat-slicked skin and eyes that gleamed with unspoken hunger. Raye Varnys, heir to the Obsidian Coven, moved through the throng like a shadow given form, his boots striking the polished floor with a predator's deliberate grace. At twenty-one, he was a blade honed by duty—his sharp jaw shadowed by stubble, his storm-gray eyes glinting with a charm as dangerous as the compulsion magic simmering in his blood. Tonight, he sought oblivion, a fleeting rebellion against the chains of his family's ambition. The music, a primal drumbeat laced with sorcerous undertones, thrummed through his bones, urging him to forget the weight of his name.
Then he saw her.
She was a blaze in the shadowed chaos—a cascade of molten copper hair spilling over bare shoulders, her curves swaying to the rhythm as if summoning the stars to kneel. Her emerald eyes, alight with defiance and a wild, unguarded joy, cut through the haze like a blade through silk. Mia. The name unfurled in his mind, unbidden, as if her soul had breathed it into him. A pull, raw and magnetic, surged through his veins, his blood igniting with a hunger that burned deeper than lust. His lips curved, a hunter's smile, as he wove through the crowd, the air parting like a lover's sigh.
"Care to dance, fireheart?" His voice was velvet, threaded with a compulsion spell so subtle it felt like a caress against her skin. Mia's lips parted, her gaze locking with his, a spark of challenge dancing in her eyes.
"Fireheart?" Her voice was warm, honeyed, with a teasing lilt that curled around his heart like smoke. "That's a bold name to pin on a stranger. What makes you think I'm burning for you?"
He stepped closer, the heat of her body a siren's call, her scent of midnight jasmine and defiance flooding his senses. "It's not what I think," he murmured, his breath grazing her ear, "it's what I feel. The way you move—like you're weaving a spell to unravel the world. Tell me, darling, what's a woman like you chasing in a place like this?"
Her laugh was a spark, bright and fleeting, as she pressed a hand to his chest, her touch searing through his black silk shirt. "Chasing? Oh, maybe I'm not chasing at all. Maybe I'm luring something wilder than me."
His pulse quickened, a low growl rumbling in his throat as he caught her wrist, his thumb brushing the pulse point where her heat thrummed. "Careful, love," he said, his voice dropping to a husky whisper, "lure the wrong beast, and you might find yourself devoured."
He lifted her chin up to face him, her lips curving into a wicked smile. "Then let's see how sharp your teeth are, name is Raye. Dance with me—and don't hold back."
Their bodies collided, a storm of heat and rhythm, the music a primal pulse that bound them. His hands found her waist, fingers splaying over the curve of her hips, tracing the emerald silk of her dress as they swayed. She was intoxicating—her warmth a flame licking at his restraint, her laughter a spark that threatened to ignite him. His fingers grazed the bare skin of her lower back, and she arched into him, her breath a soft gasp against his jaw. "You're bold," she whispered, her lips brushing his ear, "but I'm not some fragile thing to be caught. Touch me like you mean it, or I'll find someone who will."
His grip tightened, a possessive edge to it, as he pulled her closer, their bodies pressed so tightly he could feel her heartbeat, wild and fierce, mirroring his own. "Oh, I mean it," he growled, his lips hovering over hers, teasing without claiming. "But you're playing a dangerous game, fireheart. Tell me, what happens when you burn too bright? Do you consume everything… or do you let someone else fan the flames?"
Her eyes darkened, a flicker of vulnerability beneath her bravado. "Maybe I want to burn," she said, her voice softer now, almost a confession. "Maybe I want someone who can handle the fire without turning to ash."
The dance became a duel of desire and restraint, each step a confession of want. His hand slid higher, fingers tangling in her hair, tugging gently to tilt her face toward his. Her lips parted, a silent invitation, and he nearly broke—nearly claimed her then and there, the world be damned.
In the velvet-draped seclusion of the VIP lounge, where starlight filtered through crystal chandeliers and runes pulsed faintly beneath the floor, Raye guided Mia to a low table, its surface etched with sigils that flared under his touch. Her breath hitched as he leaned in, his lips capturing hers in a kiss that was slow, deliberate, and ravenous—a collision of need and restraint. She tasted of wine and rebellion, her fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer as if she could drink him in. "Gods, Raye," she murmured against his mouth, her voice a husky plea, "you kiss like you're trying to steal my soul."
"Maybe I am," he whispered, his lips trailing down her throat, tasting the salt of her skin, the pulse of her life beneath his tongue. "Would you let me, Mia? Would you give me everything?"
Her laugh was breathless, her hands roaming his chest, tugging at his shirt as if she could tear through his defenses. "Only if you give me something in return," she teased, her nails grazing his skin, sending a jolt of heat through him.
His hands slid to her thighs, parting the slit of her dress, his lips trailing lower, worshipping the curve of her collarbone, the soft plane of her belly. And there, beneath the hem, a heart-shaped sigil glowed faintly—a rose of crimson threaded with scales, pulsing like a living ember. A Hatcher. His breath caught, desire curdling into a cold, calculating dread. The woman who had set his soul ablaze was the key to his coven's dominion—or its ruin.
"You're… impossible," he murmured, his voice a lie wrapped in truth, his fingers trembling as they traced the mark, its warmth a brand against his skin. "How do you burn so bright and not know it?"
Mia's eyes fluttered, dazed, her innocence a blade twisting in his chest. "Raye…" Her voice was soft, unguarded, a thread of trust that broke him. "Why does it feel like I've been waiting for you my whole life?"
His throat tightened, guilt clawing at him as he wove a sleep spell, his magic a gentle betrayal. "Because you were meant to," he whispered, his lips brushing her forehead. "Sleep, fireheart. Dream of me."
Her eyes fluttered shut, her body slumping against the velvet cushions, her copper curls spilling like wildfire across the pillows. His hands lingered, redressing her with a reverence that felt like penance, his fingers tracing the curve of her hip, the softness of her skin a memory he couldn't unmake. He stepped back, pulling his phone from his pocket, his jaw tight with resolve.
"Father," he said, voice low as the sea's murmur beyond the cliffs, "I've found her. A Hatcher. Virgin."
Lord Varyn's voice slithered through the line, cold as polished obsidian. "Well done, Raye. I will arrange an auction at once. Discreetly. The dragon clans will tear their hearts out for her—and the heir she'll bear."
Raye's grip tightened, his knuckles whitening. "And the blessing? Our cut?"
"Power to rival the gods," Varyn purred. "The dragon's blessing will make our coven untouchable. Do not fail me, son. Keep an eye on the girl"
The call ended, leaving Raye in the shadowed lounge, the weight of his betrayal heavier than the sea itself. He looked at Mia, her beauty a wound, her vulnerability a chain he had forged. He wanted her—gods, he did, with a primal ache that clawed at his soul, a need to claim her, to protect her, to burn with her. But the Obsidian Coven's legacy demanded sacrifice, and Raye, for all his fire, was its heir.
As he turned to leave, a flicker of movement caught his eye—a silhouette in the shadows, cloaked in starlight, their eyes glinting with predatory fire. A dragon, perhaps, or something older, their presence a cold blade against his spine. The air grew heavy, Mia's sigil pulsing once, as if answering a call he could not hear.