Page 42 of Fire's Storm
"But training can wait," he rumbles, voice dropping to a register that sends vibrations through my chest. "Bond settling requires repeated claiming during the initial phase."
My body responds instantly. Core temperature rising. Electricity racing visibly beneath my skin. Dampness gathering between my thighs.
"Is that so?" I arch an eyebrow, trying for skepticism despite my body's obvious reaction. "Sounds suspiciously convenient."
"Essential protocol," he insists with mock seriousness, massive hand already tracing patterns along my hip that leave heat trails in their wake. "Vital for proper bond establishment."
"Well, if it's protocol..." I begin, but his mouth claims mine before I can finish the thought.
As his hands rediscover my body—reverent yet possessive, gentle yet demanding—I surrender to sensations I never imagined possible a week ago.
We are changed. Different yet stronger. Separate individuals permanently connected. The paradox would bother me if I had the mental capacity to analyze it, but Vulcan's touch drives coherent thought from my mind.
Lightning dances around us again as the storm builds within. For the first time in my life, I stop fighting, stop controlling, stop holding back.
And in that surrender, I find power I never knew existed.
EIGHT
THE CONSPIRATORS
Defeat has a scent.
Councilor Metu inhales it from his own skin as he stalks into his private quarters, teeth bared, obsidian scales rippling beneath his flesh. The stench of failure clings to him like rot. His dragon half rumbles deep in his chest, demanding release.
Control. Always control.
He tears the ceremonial white robes from his body, not bothering with fasteners. The fine fabric shreds beneath hands that have partially shifted without his permission, black claws extending from fingertips gone hard with scale.
"Fuck." The word escapes in a plume of smoke.
The trial's outcome burns in his mind. That spectacular aurora. Vulcan manipulating storm energy with unprecedented precision. His human bitch somehow guiding his chaotic power. The council's collective gasp of awe. And worst of all, the council’s formal acknowledgment of their bond.
A show. A fucking light show, and they all fell to their knees in worship.
His quarters reflect a life built on discipline—weapons mounted with mathematical precision, spartan furnishingsarranged at perfect angles, not a single item out of alignment. The space feels more like a military outpost than living quarters. No personal touches. No softness. No weakness.
No chaos.
Unlike Vulcan's wild, untamed power that the clan now celebrates because of one impressive performance with his human pet. The thought sends heat flooding through Metu’s veins. A decorative crystal orb on his desk cracks, then explodes into razor-sharp fragments.
"Pathetic," he growls, instantly incinerating the mess with a controlled flame that reduces the shards to fine ash. "Losing control like some untrained whelp."
He drops to his knees in the center of the precisely woven mat, scales rippling across his chest as he forces air into his lungs. Three measured breaths in. Three out. The ancient warrior meditation forces his partial shift to recede.
The trial should have exposed Vulcan's fundamental instability. Should have demonstrated the danger of his untamed power.
Instead, it has elevated them to clan heroes.
We can't allow this.
Raak and his human mate started this dangerous trend, but at least fire was a known element. The Tempest Bond involves forces that haven't been successfully controlled in generations—energies that nearly destroyed their kind during The Sundering.
He rises, movements precise despite the fury still simmering beneath his skin. His claws click against stone as he moves to a concealed panel in his wall. No visible seam betrays its existence, but Metu’s palm knows exactly where to press. The wall slides open silently, revealing a hidden communication crystal glowing with dull red light.
He passes his hand over it, sending a wordless summons to his allies. The crystal pulses, then flares, acknowledging receipt of his call.
Not for personal vengeance, despite the hatred that burns in his gut whenever he sees Vulcan's face.
