Page 21 of Ashfall

Relief and frustration crash through me in equal measure. Because of course it’s him. Of course, he shows up just in time, like some smug, too-hot guardian angel with control issues and a savior complex. The kind of man who won’t let me fall but refuses to let me stand on my own either. And the worst part? Some traitorous part of me is glad it’s him.

He catches me like gravity doesn’t apply to him. One second I’m about to plunge into splinters and bone-snapping collapse—the next, I’m scooped from the air like a breath of smoke, crushed against heat and muscle and that impossible calm he wears like armor. His arms lock around me with instinctive precision, solid and immovable, like he’s done this before. Like catching me was always inevitable.

“What the hell were you thinking?” he growls, not letting me go.

“I was thinking I didn’t need a damn babysitter,” I snap, shoving at his chest. “But apparently you’re glued to my ass now, so good job with the timing.”

His eyes burn like coals. “You nearly died.”

“Because someone wanted me to,” I bite back. “That floor didn’t just rot out. It was cut. Controlled. Just like the ignition patterns. Just like the drone. Don’t pretend you don’t see it.”

He doesn’t deny it. But his jaw ticks tight and telling. And that’s when it hits me; I’m right. He and his entire unit know more than they’re saying. Not just about the fire. About all of it. There’s something behind his silence, something almost... resigned. Like he’s carrying the weight of a truth too dangerous to speak aloud. And that makes me more suspicious than ever.

“You’re hiding something,” I whisper. Something big. Something dangerous. And I’m starting to think it’s not just classified files or drone data. It’s in the way he moves, the way he looks at the fire—like he understands it on a level no one else does.

He finally releases me, just enough so I can breathe—but not enough to forget the way my body fits against his. The way his scent curls into my skin like it belongs there.

“Maybe, and maybe I’ll show you,” he says.

“You planning a PowerPoint or are we going straight to an interpretative dance?”

Dax snorts. “I don’t dance.”

“You did the other night.”

Dax snorts again and turns away.

Back at base, I jerk my tent flap down harder than necessary, still shaking from the adrenaline. I pace twice before grabbing my sat phone and punching in the secure line to D.C. When the connection clicks through, I steel my voice and deliver the report—terse and factual, but my fingers tremble around the receiver. The tower. The spiral symbol. The drone. The signature: D. Price. Each word leaves a residue of dread I can’t shake.

I find myself getting stonewalled—hard. Every level of clearance I try to push through hits a wall of vague responses and changing tones. First it’s protocol. Then it’s jurisdiction. Finally, it’s radio silence. Every line of inquiry dies on impact, and the message is loud and clear: back off

“Ember, this has escalated. You need to hold position,” says the man on the other end, his voice clipped and impersonal. “Let the local commander handle the rest.”

“Local command isn’t handling shit. And I’m not standing down.”

He hangs up. I lower the phone slowly, the weight of silence settling heavier than the call itself. My stomach knots, cold and tight. That wasn’t just evasion—it was orchestration. The way his voice clipped. The way he dodged. This isn’t just red tape—it’s a wall. A wall built to keep something hidden. I stare at the dead line, heart pounding. A cover-up? No. It's already in motion. The only question is how far it goes—and whether I’m already too deep to pull out.

I step outside, needing air. Needing space. My hands won’t stop shaking, and there’s a restless buzz under my skin, like my body’s trying to outrun something my brain hasn’t caught up to. The night air hits me like a slap—cold, sharp, but not enoughto clear the fog. I pace the edge of the fire line, jaw tight, heart hammering. I need to move. To do something. But all I can do is breathe and try not to scream.

That’s when I hear him. Dax. Low and deliberate, speaking in a language I’ve never heard before—measured, almost ceremonial. It rumbles through the trees like smoke over coals, pulling me toward the shadows without thinking. There’s a tension in his tone that makes every instinct in me go still.

The words aren’t English. They’re not anything I recognize. The moment they hit the air, something cold traces down my spine. My skin prickles—goosebumps, sharp and immediate—like my body understands the threat before my brain can translate it.

Guttural. Rhythmic. Old.

I freeze as he turns and our eyes lock.

And for just a second… he doesn’t look quite human.

CHAPTER 10

DAX

She walks into camp like nothing happened. Like she didn’t just dangle over splintered death. Like she didn’t scream into smoke and flame and fall straight into my arms, trembling and defiant and branded into my memory like fire on stone. Ember Vale. Impossible woman. She walks past without a glance, all straight spine and biting pride, like she didn’t just rattle the very bones of me. Like she didn’t make me burn in ways I haven’t in centuries.

But I can smell it on her. Shock, adrenaline—raw and acrid like scorched pine—and the sharp curl of her fear laced with something hotter: fury. And beneath that? Her scent, unmistakable. Wild and ripe with the kind of need she refuses to acknowledge. She can pretend all she wants, throw walls and sarcasm and distance between us, but her body speaks truths she won’t say out loud. And my dragon hears every damn word of it.

My dragon is still pacing under my skin. Still seething that I let her walk away. He wants her—wants to claim, to mark, to protect. And I do too. But I can’t. Not yet. She needs space, and if I push her now, she might bolt—not from the fire and her job,but from me. Or worse, she’d stop trusting me. And I need her trust more than I need her body right now. Barely.

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