Page 21 of To Match A Dragon's Fire

My eyes narrowed.

Yeah, this was fate, all right.

I’d been waiting for this moment for ten years.

“Ember Thurman,” I growled, ignoring the way she flinched at my use of her name as I stared at the thorn in my side for the past decade. “It’s about time you showed up.”

7

Ember

This Land is My Land

“You… You know who I am,” I stuttered, trying to keep my head on straight. It wasn’t only because of the way my name sounded rolling off his tongue. I’d never heard anyone speak that way in real life.

He sounded like a male smut book narrator. His voice was all deep and raspy. Chills ran down my spine and I had to force myself to focus on not drooling.

He sure didn’t belong around here. The ridiculously handsome stranger with a panty-melting voice was not who I’d expected to run into when I saw the monstrosity of a building in my front yard.

Of course, he was good-looking.

Fuckboys always are.

I wasn’t that short at five-eight, but he was taller than me by at least a foot. Broad shoulders stretched the thin material of his faded t-shirt. Muscles that probably came from too much time in the gym, even if the calluses on his hands and toolbelt slung over his hips said otherwise.

And that stupid chiseled chin with a dusting of stubble. The dark hair on his head was cut short andwas damp from sweat. Eyes that a girl could get lost in, brown with hints of gold and red reflecting off the sun.

Something was different about those eyes. Deeper and almost reflective. I could see myself spending hours looking into them and trying to find the right words to describe the unique color…

But it was a good thing I was a full-grown woman and could ignore his masculine charms.

Because this man was a trespasser.

One who was standing onmyland.

“You have nine minutes left to tell me who you are and why you know my name before it’s time for you to leave,” I said.

My dad would’ve told me that ten minutes of kindness was too much when facing a threat, but I’d grown soft living in the city.

The guy’s gaze swept over my face. His nostrils flared slightly as he sniffed. I probably smelled like two-day-old garbage, but I was not going to stand around and let him insult me.

“Eight minutes.” I adjusted the grip on my pistol. “My patience is wearing thin.”

His eyes continued their lazy perusal, not even glancing at my gun, as if an armed woman didn’t frighten him.

Ha. Joke’s on him.

I loved being underestimated.

He placed a booted foot against the wall and leaned back, folding his arms over his chest. The arrogant way he smirked told me he wasn’t planning on going anywhere.

My blood began to boil. “Seven min—”

“21819 Cherokee Lane, Portland,” he said.

It took me a second to process the change of topic, recalling the address from a distant memory.

The too-sweet taste of banana liquor. Plastic silver confetti stuck to the beige carpets after celebrating graduation.

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