Elaria never believed in fairy tales.
Not the pretty ones, at least. Not the stories where princesses found princes, or dragons could be tamed with a song. She believed in blood. In vengeance. In fire. And right now, her body screamed with all three.
Her boots were gone, stolen by the bandits who left her for dead in the forest that lay beyond the cursed Wastes. Her feet were sliced open by ice-crusted thorns, her cloak torn to ribbons. Snow whipped at her skin, each flake a sharpened dagger. But she didn't stop. Couldn't. Her sister's voice rang in her ears.
"The dragons are not dead, El. They sleep. They wait. One day, one will wake up... and he will change everything."
Three years since Lysa vanished chasing dragon myths. Three years since Elaria buried hope and picked up a dagger.
Now she had neither.
A howl split the wind. Not wolf. Not bear. Something older. Something that made the blood in her bones hiss.
She stumbled, knee cracking against stone. She caught herself with trembling fingers, breath fogging before her face. The world tilted. She was going to die here.
But then the mountain opened.
It wasn't a cave. Not exactly. The jagged stone mouth glowed faintly with warmth. Inside: darkness, and the smell of embers, leather, and something richer. Male. Power wrapped in skin.
She should have turned around.
Instead, Elaria dragged herself inside.
The heat hit her like a wave. Her muscles unclenched all at once, and she nearly collapsed from the sudden relief. Firelight flickered deep within, but no torch. Just molten veins glowing faintly along the cavern walls, like the inside of a living creature.
She moved forward, slow. Until she wasn't alone.
He sat in shadow.
Naked.
His skin gleamed like bronze poured into a man's form. Scars laced his arms, his chest, one curling down over his hip and disappearing. His hair was long, obsidian, tangled with gold rings. And his eyes—
Not human.
They glowed amber, vertical pupils locked onto her like a hunter to prey.
"You bleed," he said.
Elaria blinked. She looked down. Her thigh was red, soaked. Her ribs throbbed with every breath.
She lifted her chin. "Do you eat travelers?"
His mouth curled. A slow, dangerous smile.
"Only the ones who ask foolish questions."
She swayed, lightheaded. He rose in one smooth, silent motion. A beast wrapped in a god's skin.
"You should not be here," he said, voice like smoke.
"I have nowhere else."
He studied her, eyes narrowing. Then, without warning, he closed the space between them and caught her before she fell.
She gasped. His arms were burning hot. Not fever-warm. Fire-warm.
He smelled of cedar and cinder, salt and ash.
"What are you?" she whispered.
He didn't answer. Instead, he carried her deeper into the cave, past shadows and flickering light until he set her gently upon a bed of furs so soft it made her ache.
She shivered, despite the heat. And not from cold.
He turned to leave.
"Wait," she said. Her voice cracked. "Don't."
He stilled.
"Why?"
She didn't know. Only that something ancient inside her reached toward him.
"Because I dreamed of eyes like yours. Once. Before my sister vanished."
He turned slowly, jaw tense. Something shifted in the air.
"What was your sister's name?"
"Lysa."
Silence. The cave pulsed with heat.
Then he said, almost too soft to hear: "She trespassed here. And the mountain took her."
Elaria sat up. Pain lanced through her, but she didn't flinch.
"You mean you took her."
His eyes darkened. Flames flickered beneath his skin.
"She offered herself to the fire."
A long beat passed. Elaria trembled, but not from fear.
She stood, slowly. Her wounds wept red, but she didn't break eye contact.
"And if I do the same?"
He moved so fast she didn't see it. One moment, she stood. The next, her back was pressed to the stone wall, his body caging hers. One hand braced beside her head. The other gripped her chin.
His breath was fire.
"You do not understand what you offer."
She tilted her face up, defiant. "Then show me."
A growl rumbled from his chest. His pupils narrowed. Power crackled between them like a lightning storm on the edge of touch.
He leaned in. His lips brushed hers.
A kiss? No. A taste. Testing.
Elaria gasped as heat rushed through her like wildfire. Her thighs clenched. Her pulse pounded. The cave dimmed.
"You carry it," he whispered against her lips. "The flame."
"What does that mean?"
"It means if I take you... you won't die."
Her breath caught. Something deep inside clenched tight.
"But?"
His hand slid down to her waist, lingered just above the cut in her hip.
"But you will never be the same."
She reached up, touched his chest. Skin like heated stone. Heart like a drum beneath her palm.
"Neither will you."
Then she pulled him down, and their mouths met with a violence born of years of silence and grief.
He kissed like a storm.
No gentleness. No restraint.
Teeth clashed. Tongues tangled. His hands gripped her thighs, lifted her off the ground. Her legs wrapped around his waist as instinct took over. She felt the weight of him, the threat, the hunger that clawed behind his control.
He growled as he tasted her mouth, her throat, her collarbone.
"Say yes," he rasped.
"Yes."
Furs enveloped her as he laid her down, eyes burning gold. She reached for him, but he caught her wrists and pinned them overhead.
He didn't undress her gently.
He tore her apart.
Leather split. Blood bloomed from reopened wounds. But she didn't flinch. She burned.
His mouth traced each scar. Each bruise. Reverent. Possessive.
Then he slid between her thighs, and she forgot her name.
Outside, snow fell.
Inside, fire devoured.
And in the dark, the dragon whispered a name he hadn't spoken in a thousand years.
"Mine."