Surrendering to the Fire

***Dru's POV***

The first thing that hit me was the scent—cinnamon and toasted chilies tangled with the earthy musk of black coffee, a fragrance so thick and warm it felt like a blanket. My eyes fluttered open to the sound of humming, a raspy lullaby that curled through the air like smoke from Marisol’s kitchen. “Duérmete mi niña…” The melody wove itself into the metallic clang of tools outside, a dissonant symphony that somehow made sense here.

Sunlight pooled through lace curtains, dappling the worn leather couch where I’d collapsed hours ago. I traced a finger over the fabric’s cracks, fossils of a thousand stories etched into the grain. The walls were a collage of faith and chaos—a chipped Virgin Mary votive flickering beside a neon lucha libre mask, family photos pinned under a rusted switchblade. In one, a younger Marisol laughed, her arms around a broad-shouldered man with Dragon’s wolfish grin. *His father?* The man’s eyes were alive, unburdened—nothing like the hollow stare Hank wore when the whiskey took hold.

*6:30 a.m.* The clock’s red numbers glared. I’d slept through the night, cocooned in a quilt stitched from flannel and faded bandanas. No nightmares. No Louise looming over me with a belt. No Hank’s fists pounding down the door. Just the hum of a ceiling fan and the faint tick-tick-tick of cooling engine parts outside.

I stood too fast, the room tilting. My boots sank into a rug braided from old denim and concert tees—blue and gray threads fraying into ghosts of their past lives. Marisol appeared in the doorway, her silhouette haloed by the kitchen’s golden light. She held a wooden spoon dripping crimson sauce, the hem of her apron stained with yesterday’s remedies.

“Ay, mija, feeling better, I see?” Her voice was gravel and honey, a sound I wanted to bottle and keep.

I fell into her embrace, her arms sturdy as oak roots. She smelled of roasted garlic and the rosemary oil she’d massaged into my bruised shoulder last night. “Yes, Madre,” I whispered into her salt-and-pepper braid. “I don’t know how you did it, but… I feel like I swallowed sunlight.”

She chuckled, the sound vibrating through me. “Sopa de pollo and spite. Works every time.” Her calloused palm cradled my cheek. “Now go. Tell my lobo breakfast’s ready. Even devils need to eat.”

The screen door squeaked as I stepped onto the porch. Dawn had painted the sky in watercolor streaks—lavender blushing into burnt orange, the last stars dissolving like sugar in coffee. The air bit my lungs, crisp with the tang of desert sage and gasoline. Somewhere, a coyote howl echoed—too human in its pitch.

I followed the gravel path to the garage, my breath fogging. The world here felt alive in a way Louise’s sterile house never did—cacti bristling with defiance, wind chimes made of shotgun shells singing a lazy tune.

Then I saw him.

If Marisol was a sanctuary, Dragon was the storm that carved it. He stood shirtless under the garage’s naked bulb, back to me, muscles rippling like river currents beneath a tapestry of ink. A dragon coiled around his spine, emerald scales shimmering with sweat as he bent over his motorcycle. Not a machine—a beast. Its chrome fenders snarled, teeth bared in a grin of polished steel.

A polishing cloth hung from his back pocket, but my gaze snagged on the ruin of his left side. A jagged gash split his ribs, raw and glistening like a crack in molten glass. Fever painted his skin ruddy, sweat tracing the valleys between scars—a roadmap of violence. His breath hitched, shallow and uneven, as he twisted a wrench.

The garage reeked of oil and iron, but beneath it—bourbon. Cheap, bitter. The same brand Hank poured into Louise's coffee mug every morning.

“You’re bleeding,” I said, voice sharp as shattered glass. The words hung in the air, sharper than I’d meant them, sharper than the wrench clenched in his fist.

He stiffened, the dragon tattoo rippling down his spine like it too had been struck. “A scratch.”

“A scratch?” I stepped closer. The wound was a jagged canyon splitting his ribs, edges raw and weeping crimson. The scent of bourbon and rusted metal clung to him, but beneath it—something darker, primal. Salt. Smoke. A feverish heat that made the garage air hum. “This isn’t a scratch. It’s a graveyard.” My throat tightened. “Where’s your first aid kit?”

“Forget it, princesa.” He turned slowly, eyes glazed with fever but still sharp enough to cut. A flush crept up his neck, painting his throat the same dusky rose as the dawn outside. A warrior’s blush.

I scanned the garage—chaos held together by grease and grit. A rusted toolbox gaped open, bandages spilling out like the guts of some mechanical beast. Beside them, a half-empty bourbon bottle glinted, its label peeling. *Hank’s brand.* My stomach twisted, but I snatched both, dousing a cloth until the alcohol burned my nostrils. “Sit. Now.”

He hesitated, jaw twitching like a live wire, but collapsed onto the workbench. The wood groaned under his weight. Up close, his skin radiated heat, a furnace banked too high. Sweat pooled in the hollow of his collarbone, tracing the edges of a tattooed rose whose thorns curled around his pulse.

I pressed the cloth to the wound. He hissed, muscles coiling. “Hold still,” I muttered, fingers trembling as I swiped away dried blood. His breath hitched—not from pain, but from the drag of my touch. *A shiver, or a shudder?*

“You’re burning up,” I said, my voice steadier than my hands. “Why didn’t you let Marisol fix this?”

“She tried.” His voice was gravel, roughened by nights of swallowed curses. “I don’t… let her.”

“Stubborn cabezadura,” I muttered, echoing Madre. The bourbon bit the air as I cleaned deeper. His muscles flinched, but he didn’t pull away. *A challenge. A dare.*

His breath hitched again as my fingers grazed the edge of the wound—a sound too raw, too human. “Why’d you come out here?” he ground out, his accent thickening like smoke.

“To fetch you for breakfast.” I taped gauze over the gash, my palm lingering on his hip. His skin burned through the fabric, his pulse a frantic drumbeat under my fingertips. *Alive. Alive. Alive.* “But seems you need patching up yourself.”

He caught my wrist, calloused thumb brushing the flutter of my pulse. For a heartbeat, his touch gentled—a caress, not a restraint. “You’re not my nurse.”

“And you’re not invincible.” Our eyes locked. In his gaze, I saw it—the frayed edges of exhaustion, the way his shoulders sagged like a bridge bearing too much weight. The garage suddenly felt smaller, hotter, the air thick with the scent of sweat and bourbon and something sweeter. *Vanilla?* From Marisol’s kitchen, maybe. Or his skin.

His grip tightened, yanking me between him and the bike. The Harley’s chrome pressed cold against my back, a stark contrast to the inferno of his chest. “You don’t get to be the only warrior here,” he growled, his Spanish accent curling around the words like a fist around a blade.

The dragon on his back seemed to shift in the flickering light, emerald scales catching the bulb’s glare. A living thing, watching.

I tilted my chin up, defiance sparking like flint. The scent of him engulfed me—motor oil and sweat, yes, but beneath it, something darker, sweet as stolen honey and just as forbidden. “Warrior?” I taunted, my voice a blade sheathed in silk. “I’m the girl who patches up thieves.”

He smirked, but it frayed at the edges, a crack in his armor. “Thieves who steal princesses don’t apologize.” His free hand skimmed my waist, slow and deliberate, fingertips branding through the thin cotton of my shirt. His thumb brushed the sliver of bare skin above my jeans—a whisper of a touch that scorched.

We both froze.

A crow cawed, distant. Somewhere, Marisol’s laugh tangled with the clatter of dishes.

The world narrowed to the hitch of his breath, the way his pulse leapt under my palm. His gaze dropped to my lips, quick as a strike, but I caught it. A match flickering in the dark.

“You should,” I breathed, bracing against the bike’s cold metal, the bite of chrome through my jeans anchoring me to reality. My voice wavered, traitorous. “Starting with thanking me.”

“Gracias,” he murmured, the word rough and raw, stripped of its usual mockery. His thumb pressed harder into my hip, a silent counterpoint to the gentleness of his other hand cradling my jaw.

The air turned molten. His fingers tightened, knuckles whitening like he was clawing back control. When he spoke again, his voice fractured. “Dru…”

He said my name like it was a sacrament and a sin, a confession torn from his throat.

I snapped first.

My hands fisted in his hair, tugging him down as I rose onto my toes. Our lips crashed together—not a kiss, a collision. Heat and bourbon and desperation. His mouth was relentless, all teeth and hunger, but his hands… His hands. They cradled my face like I was glass, calloused palms trembling against my skin, as if I might shatter or slip through his fingers.

I bit his lip, hard. He groaned, the sound vibrating through me, and suddenly I was pinned between him and the Harley, the cold metal searing my back. His knee slid between my thighs, a question and a demand.

“Dios, you’re—” he rasped against my mouth, but the rest was swallowed by another kiss, deeper, hungrier. His fingers tangled in my hair, tilting my head back, exposing my throat. His lips trailed fire down my neck, a promise of ruin.

Somewhere, a wrench clattered. We jerked apart, breath ragged, foreheads pressed together. His chest heaved, sweat-slick and gleaming under the garage’s harsh light.

“Breakfast,” I whispered, the word a lie and a lifeline.

“Later.” He nipped my earlobe, a threat and a plea, before stepping back. His hands lingered on my waist, fingers flexing like he was memorizing the shape of me.

The crow cawed again, louder this time. A taunt. A reprieve.

The wrench’s clatter faded, but the silence that followed was louder. My fingers traced the ridges of his ribs again, skimming the bandage like a map to his heartbeat. He caught my wrist, but this time his grip was a plea, not a command. His thumb stroked the flutter of my pulse, and the garage air crackled, thick with bourbon, sweat, and something darker—desire, untamed and reckless.

His accent curled like smoke, rough and honeyed. “Cuidado, mi guerrera,” he growled, voice sandpaper-raw, lips hovering above the hollow of my throat. “You’re playing with hellfire.” His breath scalded my skin, a slow drag of heat that coiled low in my belly. When his mouth found the pulse point beneath my ear, it wasn’t a kiss—it was a claim. Teeth scraped, tongue soothed, and I arched into him, a gasp tearing free like a prayer.

“Who said I’m playing?” I breathed, the words a dare spun from silk and defiance. My hands fisted in his hair, tugging hard enough to bruise. “Maybe I’m the hellfire.”

He stilled—a predator caught mid-strike—before his restraint shattered.

His kiss was a wildfire, all burning desperation and stolen breaths, and I answered with a hurricane—teeth, tongue, and a hunger that terrified me. His hands raked through my hair, anchoring me to the storm, while mine clawed at his waist, nails biting skin as if I could carve myself into his bones.

The Harley dug into my spine, cold metal branding me, but I didn’t care. Pain was a compass, grounding me to this moment—to him. I wrapped my legs around his hips, heels locking at the small of his back, and he groaned, a raw, broken sound that vibrated through my chest.

“Dru—” My name was a curse on his lips, rough and reverent.

“No.” I yanked him closer, claiming his mouth again, harder, deeper. This wasn’t surrender—it was conquest. My teeth caught his lip, a sharp warning, and he growled, the vibration humming against my tongue like a live wire.

But when his hands slid lower, skimming the curve of my hips, the world fractured.

Suddenly, it wasn’t Dragon’s calloused palms I felt—it was Hank’s whiskey-sour breath, the crunch of gravel beneath my knees, the metallic tang of fear. The garage walls melted into Hank’s shed, the scent of motor oil replaced by mildew and rage. *“You think you can run, girl?”* His laugh slithered through me, cold and familiar.

I froze, a statue in the eye of the storm.

Dragon jerked back as if scalded. “Dru…” His voice was shattered glass, edges sharp with guilt.

I pressed my forehead to his chest, his heartbeat a frantic drum against my skin. My legs trembled, betraying the lie I clung to—I’m in control. I’m not afraid.

But Dragon saw. *He always saw.*

“Lo siento,” he murmured, rough fingers brushing a tear I didn’t realize had fallen. “I’m not… him.”

The unspoken vow hung between us—I’ll never be.

My lips still throbbed, swollen and raw from his kiss—a relentless echo of what I refused to admit. The ghost of his teeth on my lower lip lingered, a phantom ache that pooled low in my belly. I squared my shoulders, chin lifted in defiance, but my traitorous body leaned imperceptibly closer, drawn to the heat radiating off him like a moth to a flame.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” I spat, the lie sharp on my tongue—a blade I wielded to cut us both.

His thumb grazed my jawline, calloused and deliberate, pausing to press against the pulse point beneath my ear.

“Mentirosa. (Liar)” The word curled like smoke, dark and knowing, his breath warm against the shell of my ear. His smirk deepened, eyes glinting with a predator’s certainty. “You kiss like it means everything,” he murmured, his voice a velvet rasp.

His other hand drifted to the small of my back, fingertips skimming the waistband of my jeans—a featherlight touch that scorched.

Heat flooded my veins, a wildfire he’d stoked with infuriating ease. I arched a brow, palm slamming against his chest to push him back, but my fingers curled reflexively as if to draw him closer. A silent plea for more. His heartbeat thudded under my hand, steady, infuriating, a rhythm that matched the frantic cadence of my own.

Pressing my hand against his chest, trying to create distance, “We're done…for now.”

A low laugh rumbled in his throat, velvet and venom. “For now?” His breath seared my ear, lips brushing skin as he leaned in—too close, not close enough. His stubble scraped my cheek, a delicious friction that made my knees weaken.

“Careful, princesa.” His teeth skimmed my earlobe, a flicker of threat that sent a shiver down my spine. “I’ve got patience…” His tongue traced the curve of my ear, a slow, torturous stroke. “…but even saints beg.”

I stepped into him, fingertips skating over the bandage. The wound from Hank’s bullet—still raw—wept under my caress. A reminder. A warning. An excuse to touch. The memory of how he’d earned that wound flashed between us—Hank’s bullet, his blood, the way he’d shoved me behind him without hesitation.

“Don’t get cocky,” I murmured, nails digging lightly into the gauze, a silent promise to unravel him stitch by stitch. “I’m still deciding if you’re worth the trouble.”

His hand snapped around my wrist, yanking me flush against him. Every hard, unyielding curve of him pressed into me, a living weapon honed for pleasure and pain.

“Trouble’s my middle name, corazón,” he growled, voice roughened with something feral, primal. His lips brushed my temple, a whisper of a kiss that seared like a brand. “But you?” The words sank into my skin, a confession, a vow. “You’re the kind of trouble that burns cities.”

I scoffed, even as my pulse roared like a storm. “Cities, huh?” I tilted my head, mocking, but my gaze dropped to his mouth, lingering a heartbeat too long. “You’re overestimating your charm.”

His grin turned wolfish, eyes darkening with a hunger that mirrored my own. “Am I?” He released me abruptly, stepping back.

The cold air rushed in where his body had been, a cruel substitute. He tossed me the helmet, his fingers brushing mine—lingering, deliberate, his thumb sweeping across my knuckles in a slow, secret caress. My pulse thrummed, wild and traitorous, but I smothered it with an eye roll.

“Take your time,” he purred, lighting a cigarette with deliberate calm. The flame flickered, reflecting in his eyes like twin pyres. “I’ll be here… waiting.”

The screen door slammed. We both flinched, but our gazes remained locked, a current of unspoken want crackling between us.

******