Chapter Two: The Burn Unit

The storm rolled in fast. The thick clouds bruising the South Australian sky, thunder rattling the windows of Southridge Hospital like a warning. Isla Quinn did not flinch. She had seen worse in Dublin: sirens, blood, heartbreak. But this place was different. Quieter. Wilder. Like something ancient was watching.

She moved through the ward with practiced ease. Checking vitals, adjusting IVs, murmuring reassurances to patients who barely stirred. Her uniform clung damply to her skin, the humidity pressing in like a second layer.

Bed four drew her attention again.

The girl is no older than ten. She lay curled beneath crisp sheets, her skin flushed and fevered. The burns were odd. No blistering. No trauma. Just heat. Like fire lived inside her.

Isla frowned, scanning the chart. “Her temperature is climbing again. No signs of infection. No external source.”

“She doesn’t burn like humans do.”

The voice came from behind her. Low, gravelled, and far too close. Isla spun around, instinct flaring. The man in the doorway was tall, broad-shouldered, with dark eyes that shimmered gold in the emergency lighting. Not metaphorically. Literally.

“Excuse me?” she said, steadying her voice.

“She’s my sister,” he said. “Kael Draven.”

Isla glanced at the chart. No mention of a sibling. No emergency contact. “You’re not listed.”

“I don’t do paperwork.”

She crossed her arms. “Well, I do. So, unless you are here to help, you will need to wait outside.”

Kael did not move. His gaze flicked to the girl, then back to Isla. “She needs heat. Not ice packs. Not sedation. Heat stabilisess her.”

Isla frowned. “That’s not how burns work.”

“It is for her.”

Something in his tone made her pause. Not arrogance. Desperation. And something else. It was like he was holding back a truth that was too heavy for him to speak.

She does not burn like humans do.

Isla’s breath caught. The words stirred something in her. She looked at the girl again. The fever. The shimmer beneath her skin. Like embers waiting to ignite.

She had seen burns before. Real ones. She had held her brother’s hand in the ICU back in Dublin, whispering stories from their childhood. Clifftop walks, stolen chips, the way he used to sing off-key in the bath. Hoping he would hear her through the morphine haze.

He had not.

She had buried him in the rain. Left her job. Left her partner. Left the city that had once felt like home.

And now here she was, halfway across the world, staring at a child who defied everything she knew about medicine. And a man who looked at her like he saw through the walls she had built.

“Who are you?” she asked.

Kael stepped forward, the air around him warming. “Someone who knows what she is. And what you’re about to find out.”

He hadn’t meant to speak so sharply. But the nurse—Isla Quinn, her badge read—was standing too close to Ember’s bed, too calm, too composed. And too beautiful for his peace of mind.

Kael’s gaze lingered on her copper hair, pulled into a ponytail that revealed the curve of her neck and the fine freckles dusting her pale skin. He imagined the length of it—probably fell in waves down her back when it wasn’t tied up. Her green eyes were sharp, intelligent, but softened by something he couldn’t name. Compassion, maybe. Or grief. She had the kind of face that made people trust her. Sweet-looking. Pretty. Too pretty.

His jaw tightened.

She was slim, but not fragile. There was strength in the way she moved—efficient, practiced, like she’d seen chaos and learned how to walk through it without flinching. He could see the tension in her shoulders, the way she held herself like someone who’d been broken once and stitched herself back together.

Kael looked away, forcing his thoughts back to Ember. This wasn’t the time. Isla was human. Ordinary. She didn’t belong in his world, and he had no right to want her in it.

But he did.

From the moment he saw her standing in the doorway, rain clinging to her uniform, eyes locked on Ember with quiet determination—he’d felt something shift. Like the first crack in a wall that he’d spent years building.

And then the dream.

That first night, when he’d closed his eyes and seen Isla—not in scrubs, but barefoot in the Ashen Territory, her hair loose and glowing in firelight. The shadows clung to her curves, the air thick with heat and silence. She looked at him like she knew exactly what he needed—and wasn’t afraid to give it.

He’d stepped toward her, pulse hammering, breath shallow.

And then he kissed her.

Slow. Desperate. Like he was trying to remember how it felt to be alive.

Her mouth was soft, parted, welcoming. His hands had found her waist, her back, the line of her neck. She didn’t pull away. She leaned in, pressed closer, fingers curling into his shirt like she wanted to anchor him there.

It wasn’t claimed. It wasn’t rushed.

But it burned.

And when he had woken, his body still ached for her.

He hadn’t slept since.

Kael cleared his throat. “She needs heat,” he repeated, voice rougher now. “Trust me.”

Isla didn’t respond right away. Her eyes searched his face, and for a moment, Kael wondered if she could see the dream too—if some part of her already knew.