Page 23 of Fire's Storm
The positive reinforcement motivates me to try again without prompting, gathering energy more deliberately this time, focusing it through my system with increasing confidence.
The second bolt strikes precisely where intended, slightly less powerful but more controlled. The third follows quickly, then a fourth, each discharge easier to direct, to modulate in intensity. By the sixth attempt, I no longer require Vulcan's hands guiding the energy flow, though he maintains contact—his touch transitioning from instructional to something more personal, more appreciative as his fingers trace patterns along my arms that leave trails of electrical pleasure in their wake.
"You're a natural," he murmurs, voice rumbling with something deeper than simple approval. His scent surrounds me.
The praise sends another wave of electricity across my skin. When I turn to face him, intending to request space, to regain composure compromised by physical proximity, the expression on his face stops me mid-motion.
Hunger—raw, primal, barely contained—darkens his electric blue eyes to midnight, pupils expanded to eclipse irises. But alongside the desire, I see something else—respect, admiration, partnership.
"I should continue practicing," I manage, my voice betraying me with its husky tone.
"Yes," he agrees, making no move to increase the space between us. His gaze drops to my lips, lingers there with unmistakable intent that sends fresh electricity crackling along my skin. "You should."
Neither of us moves for long moments, tension building between us like the electrical charge before a lightning strike, inevitable yet temporarily delayed.
When he finally steps back, creating necessary distance, the loss of contact feels physically painful, my body unconsciously swaying toward his before discipline reasserts control.
"Try splitting the discharge," he suggests, voice rougher than before as he visibly struggles to maintain instructional focus."Two targets simultaneously. Division of energy requires greater concentration but provides advantages in defensive situations."
I welcome the challenge, the return to training focus rather than overwhelming physical awareness. I turn back to the practice area, raising both arms this time, visualizing energy flowing equally through both pathways.
The double discharge that follows surprises even me—twin lightning bolts striking separate targets with precision that would have seemed impossible hours earlier.
As training continues, my confidence builds alongside my abilities
Each success builds upon previous achievements, muscle memory developing alongside intellectual understanding of my emerging capabilities.
Throughout the session, Vulcan maintains careful distance after that initial charged moment—close enough to provide guidance but avoiding direct contact that would further complicate our already complex dynamic. His instruction remains focused, professional, despite the constant, pulsing awareness between us.
Only his eyes reveal his true state—electric blue darkening to midnight when my movements expose skin, when particularly impressive discharges demonstrate my rapid mastery.
By training's end, I feel simultaneously empowered and exhausted—my new abilities exhilarating yet their exercise depleting energy reserves not yet fully developed. The dichotomy mirrors my emotional state—pride in rapid mastery balanced against discomfort with fundamental identity changes occurring without my conscious consent.
"Is this part of the bond too?" I demand later, when we've returned to our private chambers. The training session has left me physically drained but mentally wired, questions multiplying faster than answers can address them.
My borrowed clothing clings to sweat-dampened skin, copper hair escaping its practical ponytail to frame my face in wild disarray. The storm energy beneath my skin pulses unevenly, seeking balance I can't yet provide alone.
"This... constant awareness? This need that won't go away?"
The blunt question emerges without preamble, directness always my default when diplomatic approaches seem insufficient. Three days of persistent, embarrassing physical responses to his proximity, to thoughts of him, to dreams that leave me waking with singed sheets—enough is enough.
Understanding precedes control, and control remains my priority as my world reshapes around me.
Vulcan's eyes darken immediately, pupils expanding as he scents the air between us. His nostrils flare slightly, unconscious response to pheromones I now know I'm producing—dragon markers emerging in my biochemistry that signal receptivity, compatibility.
I notice him shift stance, angling his body toward mine, tracking my movements with hyper-focused attention. His fingers flex at his sides, as if fighting the urge to reach for me.
"Yes," he admits after momentary hesitation, voice dropping to a rumble that sends electricity crackling along my nerve endings. He stands near the chamber entrance, maintaining a deliberate distance that contradicts the hunger evident in his expression.
"Your body recognizes its compatible match. The physical responses—arousal, sensitivity, electrical manifestations during heightened emotion—all bond progression indicators."
"I don't want a mate," I insist, backing away as he takes an unconscious step forward. The instinctive retreat contradicts my usual confrontational approach to challenges, revealing deeper uncertainty beneath tactical assessment.
"I don't want to be controlled by these... urges. I need to understand what's happening to me without biological imperatives complicating rational thought."
"Neither do I," he growls, stopping his advance but not retreating, tension visible in his powerful frame as restraint battles instinct. The scales along his forearms ripple with suppressed emotion, blue-silver patterns expanding, receding, expanding again as control fluctuates.
"Centuries of independence compromised by desires I neither anticipated nor sought. Fighting it only makes it worse."
