Page 7 of Lost in Fire

But I’m not anonymous anymore. I’m a father with decades of lost time to make up for. I’m a man with a daughter to save and a ghost to confront.

Whatever game Vanya has been playing, whatever lies she’s built our daughter’s life on, whatever danger is closing in—I’m going to be part of the solution.

Even if it kills me.

The city blurs past as I walk, but my mind is already working through the only option I can see. It’s going to require trust I don’t have and alliances I never wanted.

But for the first time in twenty-one years, I have a reason to risk everything.

Chapter 3

Vanya

The drive back from the city stretches on forever. Each traffic light. Each pedestrian crossing. Each mile between me and the message I sent feels like an eternity of second-guessing.

They’re going to kill our daughter.

My own words echo in my skull, six simple words that might have just destroyed everything I’ve spent a lifetime building.

The steering wheel cuts into my palms. I’ve been gripping it too tightly, knuckles white, tendons straining. But loosening my hold feels impossible when everything else is sliding out of control.

Vex’s insane protocol haunts my thoughts as I navigate the familiar streets. Two weeks. Maybe less before they start systematic bloodline verification of all senior personnel and their families. Maybe days before they uncover the child I’ve kept hidden all these years and reveal exactly what she is.

The house sits at the end of Maple Street like a Norman Rockwell painting. White shutters. Red brick. The mailbox painted with cheerful daisies that Ember insisted on adding when she turned sixteen. Mrs. Henderson waves from her porch next door—the same friendly gesture she’s made every evening since we moved here.

I turn off the engine and sit in the driveway, watching the glow of lamplight through our front windows. Inside, Ember is probably curled up with her laptop, working on some assignment for the carefully curated online courses that make up her education. No dorm rooms. No study groups. No late-night conversations with roommates about boys and dreams and futures.

Just her mother, her books, and the invisible cage I’ve built around her life.

A cage that’s about to be torn apart by a goddamn madman.

I take a deep breath and compose myself, searching for the mask of calm I’ve perfected over decades of practice. But underneath, my hands won’t stop shaking.

Deep breath. You are her mother. You are in control. Everything is manageable.

The lies taste metallic, especially when Vex’s timeline pounds through my skull like a ticking time bomb.

I walk up the front path with measured steps, keys already in hand. The lock turns smoothly—I oil it every month, one of a hundred small rituals that keep our world running without friction.

“Mom?” Ember’s voice carries from the living room before I’ve hung up my coat. “Is that you?”

“Of course it’s me.” I keep my tone light, hanging the coat with deliberate care. “Who else would it be?”

She appears in the doorway, laptop balanced against her hip. The concern in her expression makes something twist in my chest. “You’re later than usual. And you have that look.”

“What look?”

“The one you get when work is… complicated.” She tilts her head, studying my face with an intensity that never fails to unnerve me. “Did something happen at the foundation?”

I just voted to implement the protocols that will expose everything we are.

“Nothing I can’t handle.” I manage a smile that feels more convincing than it should. For years, I’ve managed to convince her that I work for a dragon shifter foundation that requires us to maintain absolute secrecy at all times. The truth. But not. Because the real threat comes from our own kind, not the humans she believes we’re hiding from.

We move through our evening routine with the smoothness of old habits. A light dinner, and then tea—Earl Grey for her, chamomile for me. Two armchairs by the fireplace, positioned exactly the right distance apart. Close enough for conversation, far enough that she can’t read the tension in my bearing.

But tonight feels different. Every gesture weighted with the knowledge that we might have days, not weeks, before everything unravels.

“How was your day?” I ask, settling into my chair.

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