Page 64 of Fired Up Love

Both opened their mouths to argue, but Xai pointed a finger at them. “No debating. Severin is one person. I can handle him. The spa needs everyone it can get.”

Thora and Noven wore matching frowns. “Boss?—”

“Listen to me,” he implored. “How would Zina feel to come back to a burnt out building when you could’ve save it?” Both faces paled with the thought.

Yeah, he knew playing the guilt card would work.

“Fine,” Noven said. “You call us the second you get Severin contained.”

He nodded, keeping his serious expression. The two hurried down the road to where they’d parked the car. When he heard the faint hum of the engine heading away, he approached the manor with preternatural silence. Dragon heat radiated from his core, warming the air around him despite the night chill. As he reached the servants’ entrance, he pressed his palm against ancient oak. The wood warmed beneath his touch, centuries-old enchantments sizzling as they recognized dragon magic.

The door swung inward without a sound.

Inside, darkness pressed against him, thick and oppressive. To human eyes, the interior would appear pitch black, but Xai’s draconic vision transformed the gloom into varying shades of gray and amber. Dust motes floated in the stale air, undisturbed for decades until his arrival. The scent of abandonment mingled with something sharper—lion shifters had passed through recently. Beneath that lingered an acrid tang of mercenary magic users.

Not locals. Hired muscle.

Xai’s mouth tightened. Severin importing outside forces spoke volumes about the nature of tonight’s ritual. The blood moon overhead bathed everything in crimson malevolence, amplifying even modest magical signatures to dangerous levels. Through the broken roof, he glimpsed its baleful glow seeping through gaps in rotted timber.

His senses mapped the building’s hidden occupants—four distinct heartbeats on the floor below, another six scattered throughout the east wing. So much for Severin being solo.

Each beat, each breath, registered as clearly as footprints in fresh snow. He categorized them by species and threat level through scent alone.

A floorboard groaned beneath the weight of someone moving three rooms away. The subtle shift in air currents indicated a door opening somewhere to his left. Every detail cataloged automatically, a habit developed across centuries of existence.

Cautious steps carried him deeper into the manor’s bowels. The floorboards should have creaked beneath his weight, yet they remained silent as if the house itself feared drawing attention to his presence. Corridors twisted in labyrinthine patterns designed to confuse unwanted guests. Original Gravemont architecture—paranoid by nature and justified in that paranoia if historical accounts proved accurate.

The panther-shifter families who had built this place understood the value of secrets. Hidden passages honeycombed the walls while false doors led to drop traps or dead ends. Without enhanced senses, an intruder might wander for days without finding anything of significance.

A new scent caught his attention—parchment, ink, and the distinctive musk of lion shifter permeating paper. His nostrils flared as he tracked the odor to a narrow doorway nearly invisible against dark wood paneling. The entrance practically vibrated with protective enchantments.

Magic locks had never impressed Xai.

He placed his palm against the door, channeling heat with surgical precision. Practice allowed him to melt the magical tumblers without triggering alarms, the enchanted metal yielding to dragon fire transmitted through controlled contact. The spellwork dissolved, revealing a hidden library beyond.

Moonlight streamed through a filthy skylight. Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined the walls, each book bound in leather bearing the Madrigal pride crest embossed in faded gold. The room smelled of obsession—that distinct aroma produced when someone handled the same objects repeatedly, leaving behind psychological residue as tangible as fingerprints.

Xai moved toward the central desk where multiple journals lay scattered across its surface. His eyes narrowed at the date inscribed on the largest tome—1924. He opened it carefully, paper crackling beneath his touch.

The Founding Pyre rightfully belongs under Madrigal control. Our ancestor Silas Gravemont was promised guardianship once the town stabilized. The other founding families betrayed him, using their combined power to lock him out of the triumvirate. This blood moon, I will reclaim what was stolen.

Elegant script filled dozens of pages, detailing ritual components and historical justifications for tonight’s actions. The carefully documented obsession spanned generations—far longer than they’d suspected. This wasn’t merely about power or territory; it centered on a family vendetta nurturing resentment across centuries.

Xai ran his fingers along the leather binding, his thoughts momentarily drifting to Zina’s hands exploring the sensitive ridges along his spine the previous night. The memory of her touch against his partially shifted form—her fingertips tracing patterns across golden scales without hesitation or disgust—sent heat coursing through his veins.

The tenderness in her exploration had undone him more thoroughly than any passionate embrace could have. For centuries, he’d hidden his draconic features from intimate partners, maintaining human form during rare liaisons. Only family had seen the scales shimmering beneath his skin, the golden eyes bleeding to molten amber, the temperature spikes when emotions ran high.

Yet Zina had not only accepted these aspects but seemed to delight in them. “Beautiful,” she’d whispered against his shoulder blade, lips brushing transformed skin with reverence that had left him speechless.

“Focus,” he muttered to himself, the single word echoing in the empty library.

SIXTY-TWO

Dragons prided themselves on discipline. Years of meditation and control techniques should’ve prevented such distractions during critical missions. Yet thoughts of amber eyes and sarcastic smiles infiltrated his concentration with embarrassing frequency.

The change in himself both alarmed and fascinated him. His dragon nature—once content with solitary power—now craved her presence with unsettling intensity. The territorial instincts that typically extended to land and treasure now encompassed a living, breathing being capable of making her own choices. The complexity of these emotions would require extensive meditation after this crisis passed.

Assuming they survived the night.

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