Page 41 of Bitten, Marked, Obsessed

“No.”

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The path to Draconis Fire isn’t paved.

It’s carved—rough and deep and ancient, as if something clawed it out of the earth and dared anyone else to follow.

Vann and I travel in silence most of the way. Which is ideal.

He’s got that smug satisfaction rolling off him like steam. Probably thinks being assigned together means I’ve been leashed. Pulled back into the fold. But he doesn’t get it. He never fucking gets it.

I’m not leashed.

I’m watching the chain—and deciding whether to break it.

The deeper we move into Fire territory, the hotter the air gets. Dry heat. Smoky. Like the land remembers when it burned andliked it.

“They still like to show off,” Vann mutters beside me, eyeing the jagged stone ridges that rise in the distance like a crown.

“I’d say the same about you,” I mutter.

He chuckles. “You can play noble all you want, Wulfson. But you’re still one of us. You bleed like the rest of us.”

“Then maybe we should stop bleeding for the wrong reasons.”

He doesn’t answer.

The road curves into the cliffside, revealing the Draconis compound—a fortress built into black rock, glowing faint with veins of molten energy that pulse underfoot. Fire magic, deep and old.

A reminder that dragons don’t need to roar to show you they could swallow you whole.

Two guards stand at the entrance—one fully scaled down his left side, the other with golden irises that burn even in shadow. They don’t speak. Just look at us like they’re already bored with the idea of our existence.

We’re led inside.

The air grows hotter. My skin itches. Sweat beads along the back of my neck.

Vann walks like he belongs here. I walk like I’m daring someone to ask why I don’t.

We’re brought to a central chamber, round and high-ceilinged, with a skylight cut into the stone above—smoke curling lazily through it. Seven dragons sit in a crescent arc of obsidian thrones, glowing symbols etched above their heads.

This is theFire Council.

At the center sits a woman in blood-red robes, scales rippling down her collarbone like armor.

“Callum Wulfson,” she says, voice smooth and warm as a furnace. “And the ever-pleasant Vann of Hollow Ridge. Welcome to Draconis Fire.”

“Appreciate the hospitality,” I say.

“We’re told the Bolvi bloodline has awakened,” she continues without preamble. “And that your pack harbors opinions on what to do with her.”

My jaw tightens. “We don’t speak for the entire supernatural community.”

“Yet here you are,” another councilor says, leaning forward, gold cuffs jingling softly. “The heir to one of the largest shifter strongholds. If you don’t speak for them… why are you here?”

“Because they sent me,” I say. “To make sure war doesn’t start over ignorance.”

That gets a few raised brows.

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