The hearth's embers glowed like the last breaths of a dying star, casting a frail, blood-red light across Raye's study, where shadows writhed like specters of his guilt. He stood rigid, the phone a cold, unyielding weight against his ear, his father's voice a venom that seeped into his bones. "The auction is sealed, Raye. Yuri has claimed her. Tomorrow, and the Hatcher must be here for him to collect."
The words struck like a blade, each syllable slicing through the fragile hope Raye had clung to. Yuri—the oldest dragon-shifter whose name was a curse carved in the annals of time, his hunger a void that swallowed light itself. And Mia, asleep in the chamber above, her auburn hair a cascade of fire across the pillow, her breath soft as a prayer, unaware of the treachery that now chained her fate. The vision of her in Yuri's grasp—her defiance crushed, her spirit caged—tore at Raye's soul, a wound that bled with every heartbeat, raw and unrelenting.
"What's to stop Yuri from ripping her apart once he claims it?" he rasped, his voice a frayed thread, taut with a fury he could barely contain.
Lord Varyn's laughter was a lash of frost, cruel and jagged. "Her life is dust, boy. The blessing is our eternity. Deliver her, or the coven will flay you—your name, your power, your very blood."
The line went dead, a guillotine's fall, and Raye's hand shook as he slammed the phone onto the desk, the sound a hollow cry in the silent room. He staggered to the high-backed chair, its leather scarred by years of restless torment, and collapsed, his face buried in trembling hands. His chest heaved, each breath a struggle against the tide of his betrayal. He had stood silent as the coven bartered her, complicit in their cold machinations, and now the truth clawed at him, a beast caged within his ribs. He loved her—gods, how he loved her. Mia, with her eyes like jade kissed by starlight, her smile a flame that kindled the ashes of his heart, her touch a promise that made him feel not as the coven's pawn, but as a man ablaze with life.
Yet he had failed her. The weight of it crushed him, a millstone grinding his soul to dust. He could defy them—steal her away, flee the coven's iron grip, outrun the dragon's shadow. But Yuri's reach was a noose woven from the ley lines themselves, his wrath a tempest that drowned empires. To run was to court annihilation, to paint a target on her back. And yet, to deliver her was to surrender her to a monster, to watch her fire gutter under Yuri's gaze, her laughter silenced forever. The thought ignited a primal fury, a possessiveness that seared his veins like wildfire. She is mine, he thought, the words a dark prayer, a vow laced with a hunger that rivaled Yuri's own, fierce and unyielding.
He rose, his steps unsteady, and paced to the hearth, where the embers pulsed like a heart on the verge of breaking. His fingers brushed the dagger at his belt, its hilt worn smooth by years of blood and duty, a reminder of the lives he'd taken for the coven's cause. I could save her, he thought, the words a desperate chant, a lifeline in the storm. Or I could damn her. Either path was a descent into ruin, but the thought of her waking to his betrayal, her trust shattered like glass, was a wound deeper than any blade could carve. His heart thundered, a war drum echoing the ache of her absence, though she lay mere steps away, lost in dreams he could not share.
The memory of her seized him, unbidden, a blade of light in the darkness. Two nights past, in the garden under a moon that bled silver, her laughter had been a melody that soothed the jagged edges of his soul. "You carry the world on your shoulders," she had teased, her voice a warm caress, her fingers brushing his as they walked, each touch a spark that set his blood aflame. "Let me carry it with you, just for a night."
He had wanted to confess then, to bare the coven's plans, to beg her to run with him into the unknown. But fear had chained his tongue—fear of her rejection, fear of the coven's wrath, fear that love was too fragile a shield against the tide of fate. "You make it lighter," he had said instead, his voice rough with longing, his hand lingering on hers, memorizing the warmth of her skin. "You always do."
Her smile had been a dawn, bright and fierce, her eyes glinting with a challenge. "Careful, Raye," she had murmured, leaning closer, her breath a whisper against his cheek, sweet with the scent of jasmine. "Say things like that, and I might think you're falling for me."
His heart had stuttered, a traitor to his restraint. "And if I am?" he had countered, his voice a low growl, his gaze heavy with the truth he could not voice.
"Then you'd better not let me go," she had replied, her tone soft but unyielding, a vow wrapped in a dare. And then she had kissed him, a fleeting collision of lips that ignited a firestorm within him, raw and primal, a need that consumed reason. He had pulled her close, his hands framing her waist, her body yielding yet fierce, her breath hitching as he deepened the kiss, his fingers tangling in her hair. It had been a moment of pure, unbridled desire, but more—a bond forged in the silent spaces between their words, a promise that tethered him to her, body and soul.
Now, in the shadowed study, that memory was a dagger, twisting deeper with each heartbeat. He could still taste her, feel the press of her lips, the curve of her body against his, the way her gasp had echoed his own hunger. To betray her now was to betray that moment, to sever the part of him that lived only in her light. His fingers pressed against the window, the glass cold and unyielding, a barrier as real as the choice before him. Beyond, the night stretched endless, and above, Mia slept, her peace a fragile thing he would burn the world to protect.
"Mia," he whispered, her name a supplication, a wound laid bare. "Forgive me." The words were a confession, heavy with the weight of his silence. He had not told her of the auction, had not warned her of the dragon's claim. Each moment he delayed was a theft of her trust, each second he kept her close a stolen breath before the fall.
The fire flared, a log crumbling to ash, and a sharp knock at the door shattered the silence, each rap a hammer against his fracturing resolve. His hand flew to the dagger, his pulse a frantic rhythm, and he crossed the floor, every step a battle against the dread coiling in his gut. He opened the door to a cloaked figure, their face veiled in shadow, but the voice was unmistakable—his father's emissary, cold as a winter grave.
"The dragon's envoys greet you," the figure said, their words a blade drawn across his heart. "He demands the Hatcher. Now."
Raye's grip on the dagger tightened, his knuckles white, his gaze flickering to the staircase where Mia slept, oblivious to the storm descending upon her. Her peace was a fleeting dream, and he, the betrayer, stood at the precipice of a choice that would either save her or doom them both. His heart roared, a tempest of love and fear, and the weight of his vow—to her, to himself—threatened to crush him.