First Sparks

Chapter 3

Dawn Ellery's point of view

I wake to sunlight spilling through a gap in heavy curtains, painting a golden stripe across unfamiliar silk sheets. My body feels like it's been run over by a truck, muscles screaming in protest as I push myself to sitting position. The room spins briefly, reality reassembling itself in fragments—the chase through neon-soaked streets, the shimmering barrier, Sorin's rage as the doors closed between us. And then... them. The twins with dragon-green eyes who looked at me like they knew every secret I'd ever kept, even from myself.

This room is nothing like my motel. Rich mahogany furniture gleams in the morning light—a dresser with intricate carvings, a leather armchair that probably costs more than everything I own. The bed beneath me is massive, draped in sheets that slip against my skin like water. I don't remember how I got here, don't remember undressing or climbing under these covers. The last clear memory is following Riku up the stairs, my body leaning toward him as if pulled by invisible strings, Rain's cool gaze following our ascent.

A flush creeps up my neck at the memory of how they affected me. How they still affect me, even now, with neither of them present. It's as if they've left some imprint on my awareness, a constant low hum in the background of my thoughts.

I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, wincing as my feet touch plush carpet. Every muscle protests the movement, an aftermath of yesterday's desperate flight and the explosion of power that tore through me when I crossed the ward. My fingertips tingle where they rest against the cool mattress, the magic beneath my skin restless, like an animal pacing its cage.

The dragon tattoo between my shoulder blades pulses with a life of its own, warmth spreading outward from the design in rippling waves. I reach back, tracing the outline I know by heart—the sinuous curve of tail, the spread of wings, the proud arch of neck. It feels different under my fingers, raised like a fresh brand rather than the decade-old ink it is.

Sunlight shifts as a breeze stirs the curtains, casting patterns across the wooden floor. I test my weight, standing cautiously, half-expecting my legs to give way. They hold, though the ache runs bone-deep. Through a doorway to my right, I glimpse gleaming tile and chrome.

The bathroom is as luxurious as the bedroom—all marble countertops and polished fixtures, an oversized shower enclosed in glass, a claw-foot tub that could comfortably fit two. I catch my reflection in the mirror above the sink and barely recognize myself. My heterochromatic eyes seem brighter somehow, the amber one almost luminous against my pallor. Dark circles shadow beneath them, evidence of yesterday's ordeal, but there's something else there too—a wildness that wasn't present before, as if something primal has awakened and peered out through my gaze.

I turn on the shower, steam quickly filling the space as water cascades from a rainfall showerhead. Stepping beneath the spray feels like absolution, hot water sluicing away the physical remnants of yesterday's fear. I tilt my face upward, letting it stream over closed eyelids, and try to make sense of what's happened to me.

Magic. Light magic, Riku called it. The words should sound ridiculous, should make me laugh or roll my eyes. Instead, they resonate with a truth I feel in my marrow, explaining the inexplicable power that erupted from my hands when Finch threatened me, when Sorin pursued me. The same power that now hums beneath my skin, responding to my emotions like a faithful pet.

But magic isn't real. It can't be real. There must be some scientific explanation—a genetic mutation, a neurological condition that manifests as bioluminescence, something.

Yet I crossed a barrier that ordinary people walked through without seeing. I entered a place that exists simultaneously with the Las Vegas Strip yet remains hidden from it. I met twin men who radiate power that calls to something inside me, something that recognizes them on a level deeper than conscious thought.

The water begins to cool, forcing me from my reverie. I shut it off reluctantly, wrapping myself in a towel that feels like it's woven from clouds. As I dry off, I confront the problem of clothing. My own are nowhere to be seen—the jeans and t-shirt I wore during yesterday's desperate flight have vanished.

Instead, laid out on the bed that's been made in my absence, is a dress. It's a deep emerald green that seems to shift between shades as the fabric catches the light. The cut is both elegant and daring—ankle length but with high slits that would reveal thigh with each step, a neckline that dips low enough to suggest without revealing. Beside it lie delicate undergarments of matching silk and lace.

I stare at the offering, suspicious and tempted in equal measure. Who left these? When? The thought of someone entering while I showered, of being observed without knowing, sends a chill down my spine despite the lingering warmth of the shower.

Yet I need clothes, and these are clearly meant for me. The color would complement both my eyes—the brown and the amber—and the fabric looks expensive, feels heavenly when I run it between my fingers. Wearing it would mean accepting something from them, acknowledging some kind of debt. But what choice do I have?

I slip into the underwear, then the dress, the silk settling against my skin like a sigh. It fits as if made for me, hugging curves I didn't know I had, flowing around my legs in a way that makes me feel both powerful and exposed. The slits reveal flashes of thigh when I move, the neckline showcases the delicate hollow of my throat.

I turn before the full-length mirror mounted on the closet door, watching the fabric shimmer as it catches the light. The woman reflected there is both stranger and self—the same heterochromatic eyes, the same scatter of freckles across my nose, but transformed by this garment into someone who looks like she belongs in this place of hidden magic and ancient power.

My dragon tattoo tingles between my shoulder blades, as if approving of the transformation. I reach back to touch it through the fabric, feeling its warmth even through the silk.

Time to face them, I decide. Time to get answers about what I am, what they are, and why Sorin hunts me. Time to understand this pull between us that defies all rational explanation.

Time to decide if I'm going to run again—or stay and face whatever destiny dragged me through that shimmering ward to their door.

I stand at the top of the staircase, my fingers gripping the polished banister like it's the only solid thing in a world gone fluid. The dress whispers against my skin with each breath, reminding me of my vulnerability. But I've spent a lifetime making myself smaller, making myself invisible, and I'm done with that now. Whatever I am—this light witch, this human lighthouse—I won't cower from the truth any longer. I lift my chin, square my shoulders, and descend into the unknown.

The clubhouse transforms in daylight. What seemed shadowed and mysterious last night now reveals itself in amber light streaming through high windows. The wood paneling glows with warm honey tones, the polished bar gleams, and the motorcycles lined against the far wall look less like sentinels and more like sleeping beasts. Without the chaos of my entrance, I notice details missed before—framed photographs of men and women in leather cuts, vintage signs advertising oil brands and motorcycle rallies, the scent of coffee mingling with leather polish and something older, wilder, that reminds me of lightning strikes and mountain air.

It's quieter than last night, but not empty. Club members lounge at tables or lean against the bar, some nursing cups of coffee, others cleaning weapons with methodical precision. They don't stop what they're doing when I appear, but their awareness shifts toward me like compass needles finding north. A woman with intricate tattoos spiraling up her neck—the same one who slid me water last night—gives me an appraising nod. A broad-shouldered man with salt-and-pepper beard raises his coffee mug in silent acknowledgment.

Others are less welcoming. A lean woman with close-cropped hair and eyes like flint watches me with undisguised suspicion, her fingers drumming against the knife sheathed at her hip. An older man seated alone in a corner mutters something that makes his companions glance my way with narrowed eyes.

I reach the bottom of the stairs and pause, uncertain. The main room branches off in several directions—doors leading to unknown spaces, hallways vanishing into shadow. My magic responds to my indecision, a prickle beneath my skin that makes my fingertips tingle. The walls seem to hum in response, the building itself acknowledging my presence in ways I can't begin to understand.

"Good morning, sunshine. Sleep well?"

The voice slides over me like warm honey, rich and dangerous. A hand touches the small of my back, a point of heat that sends electricity racing up my spine. I don't need to turn to know it's Riku—something in me recognizes him instantly, as if my body has been coded to respond to his presence. But I turn anyway, needing to see him, to confirm that the magnetic pull I felt last night wasn't some product of exhaustion and fear.

It wasn't.

He stands so close I can feel the heat radiating from his body, those emerald eyes dancing with mischief as they meet mine. His dark hair falls across his forehead in careless perfection, and his lips curve in a smile that promises both pleasure and trouble. He wears a black t-shirt that stretches across broad shoulders, revealing the dragon tattoo curling around his bicep. When he shifts, I catch the gleam of his tongue piercing, and heat pools low in my belly.

I step back, creating distance while my heart hammers against my ribs. "I slept," I answer, my voice steadier than I feel. "Though I don't remember getting into bed."

His grin widens, revealing perfect teeth. "You practically collapsed after I showed you the room. I put you to bed." At my alarmed expression, he adds, "Fully clothed. I'm not that kind of monster."

The kind that undresses unconscious women, or the kind that's a monster at all? I want to ask, but before I can, another presence materializes beside me.

"I trust you're ready for some answers."

Rain's voice is cooler than his twin's, more controlled, but no less affecting. Where Riku radiates playful heat, Rain exudes disciplined power. His light green eyes assess me with clinical precision, though I don't miss how they linger on the way the emerald dress hugs my curves. His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.

"The dress suits you," he says, the compliment delivered with such detachment it hardly sounds like one.

"Thanks," I reply, matching his tone. "Though I don't remember packing it."

"A gift," Rain states, as if that explains everything. "Your clothes were... damaged by your light."

The memory of last night's power surge flashes through me—the blue-white energy pouring from my skin as I crashed through the ward. I hadn't noticed any damage to my clothing, but then again, I'd barely been conscious at the end.

"So you just happened to have a dress in my size lying around?" I challenge, uncomfortable with the idea of being indebted to them.

Riku chuckles, the sound vibrating through me like a physical touch. "Let's just say we like to be prepared for guests."

Female guests, specifically, I think but don't say. The thought of other women wearing this dress, standing between these two men, sends an unexpected spike of jealousy through me. Which is ridiculous—I met them yesterday. I don't know them. I certainly have no claim on them.

Yet the pull between us suggests otherwise, invisible threads knotting us together in ways I can't explain. Standing between them now, I feel it more strongly than ever—a current running from Rain through me to Riku, completing some circuit I didn't know existed until it closed around me.

"You mentioned answers," I say, dragging my focus back to what matters. "About what I am. About Sorin. About all of this." I gesture vaguely around us, encompassing the clubhouse, the ward, the strange new reality I've fallen into.

Rain nods once, a sharp dip of his chin. "Food first. Then we talk."

It's not a suggestion. Despite his businesslike tone, I sense tension radiating from him, a tightly leashed energy that makes the air between us feel charged. His gaze drops briefly to my lips before he turns away, leading toward a hallway I hadn't noticed before.

Riku's hand returns to the small of my back, guiding me forward. The touch shouldn't feel so intimate through the fabric of the dress, but it does—each point of contact between his palm and my spine a tiny flare of heat.

"Fair warning," he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear, "some of what you'll learn isn't easy to swallow. Try to keep an open mind."

"About magic being real?" I ask, giving him a sideways glance.

His smile turns knowing. "About everything." His hand slides slightly lower, resting just above the curve of my hip. "Including what's happening between us."

Us. The word hangs in the air between us, loaded with meanings I can't begin to untangle. Before I can respond, Rain glances back, his eyes narrowing at his brother's hand on my back. Something passes between the twins—a silent communication I'm not privy to—and Riku's touch lightens, though he doesn't remove his hand entirely.

I walk between them toward whatever answers await, acutely aware of my position in their orbit—drawn to both, belonging to neither, a celestial body caught between twin gravitational fields. My magic hums beneath my skin, eager and terrified all at once.

The Great Hall steals my breath. Massive timber beams arch overhead, each one carved with intricate dragon scales that catch the amber light and seem to shift when I'm not looking directly at them. A stone hearth dominates the far wall, large enough to roast an entire animal, its surface etched with two intertwined dragons whose crystal eyes pulse with a faint blue glow. The air feels older here, heavier with history and something primal that makes my skin prickle and my magic stir beneath the surface.

Wood-smoke and leather scent the air, along with something metallurgic I can't name—like the taste of a penny on the tongue, or the smell before a lightning strike. Long oak tables bear the scars of countless gatherings, their surfaces etched with symbols similar to those on the club members' leather cuts. The floor beneath my feet is polished stone worn smooth by generations of boots, and the walls bear tapestries depicting battles between dragons and shadowy figures that remind me too much of Sorin.

Rain moves toward the hearth, his posture changing subtly as he enters this space—shoulders squaring, head lifting, as if the room itself confers some mantle of authority. Riku breaks away to pull out a chair at the central table, gesturing for me to sit. I remain standing, unwilling to cede even that small advantage.

"Coffee's still hot," Riku says, nodding toward a carafe on a side table. "Food will be up in a minute."

"I'm not hungry," I lie, though my stomach tightens at the mention of food. "I want answers."

Rain turns from the hearth, his light green eyes reflecting the crystal glow of the carved dragons. "And you'll have them. After you eat."

The dismissal in his tone rankles. I've spent my life being managed by others—passed from foster home to foster home, each with its own set of rules and expectations. I'm done being handled.

But before I can argue, Riku and Rain fall into conversation about club matters—patrol rotations, supply deliveries, something about strengthening the eastern ward boundary. They speak in the shorthand of men who know each other's thoughts, occasionally using terms I don't understand—"scales," "flight path," "territory markers."

I shift from foot to foot, frustration building in my chest. The pull between us pulses stronger with each passing minute, like an invisible cord drawing tighter. My dragon tattoo warms between my shoulder blades, responding to their proximity, and my magic stirs beneath my skin, fluttering like trapped butterflies seeking escape.

This strange connection between us feels too important to ignore. Last night, exhausted and terrified, I could blame the pull on adrenaline and relief. But in the clear light of day, with my faculties intact, the sensation is undeniable—a recognition on a cellular level, as if some part of me was made specifically to resonate with their energy.

And they're deliberately avoiding it.

The twins continue their conversation, occasionally glancing my way but never addressing me directly. The crystal eyes in the hearth dragons seem to watch me, pulsing brighter when my frustration spikes. My patience, already worn thin by days of fear and confusion, finally snaps.

"Enough," I interrupt, voice cutting through their discussion. Both men turn to me, identical expressions of surprise quickly masked by composure. "What's a light witch? Who is Sorin? Why does he want me?" I take a breath, then add the question that burns hottest: "And what is this weird thing going on between us?"

The temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees. Rain's expression shutters, his jaw tightening until I can see the muscle jumping beneath his skin. His pale green eyes turn to ice.

"That's irrelevant and need not concern you," he says, each word clipped and cold as steel. "What matters is keeping you safe from Sorin and teaching you to control your magic."

The dismissal stings like a slap. Irrelevant? The pull that makes my heart race when they're near, that makes my skin ache for their touch, that dragged me across a magical barrier directly to their door—that's irrelevant?

Riku, leaning against the table's edge, masks a grin with a soft chuckle. "What my brother means," he says, voice warm where Rain's was cold, "is that we'll tell you more when you need to know. Some things are... complicated."

"Complicated," I repeat, the word tasting bitter on my tongue. "That's convenient."

"Dawn," Rain says, and despite his coolness, my name in his mouth still sends a shiver down my spine. "You've barely accepted that magic exists. That you have magic. Some revelations require... preparation."

Heat flares low in my belly—anger tangled with something else, something that pulses in time with the pull between us. My magic responds, light dancing beneath my skin in swirling patterns that reflect my agitation. The green silk of the dress shimmers with it, the fabric taking on an unearthly glow.

And then something strange happens. As my frustration peaks, the pull slackens—not disappearing completely, but receding like a tide drawing back from shore. The constant awareness of them dulls from sharp immediacy to background noise. I can think more clearly, focus on my anger rather than my desire.

Riku notices the change, his eyes narrowing as they track the fading light beneath my skin. He steps toward me, and immediately the pull surges back, a wave crashing against my resistance. My breath catches as the distance between us narrows, the air charging with whatever this energy is that binds us.

"You feel it too," I say, making it a statement rather than a question. "Whatever this is. It affects you both."

Rain's expression tightens further, if that's possible. "As I said—"

"Irrelevant. Right." I take a step back, and again the pull recedes slightly, giving me space to breathe. "Except it doesn't feel irrelevant. It feels like the most relevant thing in the room."

My retreat seems to affect them both physically. Rain's shoulders tense as if absorbing a blow. Riku's playful smile falters, his hand twitching at his side as if to reach for me.

"Dawn," Riku tries again, his voice gentler. "We promised you answers about your magic, about Sorin. Let's start there."

But I'm done being managed, done being handled like some fragile thing that can't bear the weight of truth. I grab a fistful of my skirt and yank it sharply, the silk rustling as I step further away from their combined warmth.

"I need some fresh air," I declare, turning toward the ornate glass doors I've spotted at the far end of the hall. They must lead to a balcony or terrace—somewhere I can escape this charged atmosphere, somewhere I can think without their presence clouding my judgment.

I stride toward the doors, the dress swirling around my legs with each step, my back straight and head high. I don't look back to see their reactions, though I feel their gazes like physical pressure between my shoulder blades, right where my dragon tattoo pulses with heat.

They're hiding something fundamental from me, something that affects all three of us. And one way or another, I will discover what it is.

I step through the glass doors and into a fairy tale. The Vegas heat and barren desert landscape I expected vanishedFirst Sparks like a mirage, replaced by a world that cannot—should not—exist. Ancient trees with silver-veined leaves reach toward a sky too blue to be real, their branches swaying in a breeze that carries the scent of wild herbs and water. Stone pathways wind between flower beds where blossoms pulse with inner light, their colors shifting subtly as if breathing. In the distance, mountains rise, their peaks shimmering behind what looks like heat waves but must be magical barriers, protective walls keeping this impossible paradise hidden from the world I've always known.

I freeze on the threshold, one hand still gripping the door handle as if it might anchor me to reality. My other hand rises involuntarily to my throat, where my pulse hammers with shock and wonder. This can't be Vegas. This can't be Nevada. This can't be anywhere I've ever heard of.

The stone terrace beneath my feet extends outward into gardens that should be impossible in the desert—lush greenery, flowing water, birds with jewel-bright feathers darting between trees. The air tastes different here, cleaner but also charged with something that makes my tongue tingle, like the first bite of a too-sour candy.

My dragon tattoo warms between my shoulder blades, responding to this place as if recognizing home. The light inside me stirs, reaching toward the magic that permeates every leaf and stone. For the first time since my power manifested, it doesn't feel like an intruder beneath my skin but a natural part of me, humming in harmony with my surroundings.

"Beautiful, isn't it? Even after all these years, it still takes my breath away sometimes."

I turn to find a woman approaching along the terrace. She's older than me—maybe mid-thirties—with warm brown skin that carries a subtle golden shimmer when the light hits it just right. Dark curls frame her face, woven through with small sprigs of herbs that release their scent as she moves. Her moss-green eyes, flecked with gold, regard me with open curiosity.

"I'm Liora," she says, extending a hand. "The twins asked me to show you around and remind you to stay within the territory of the clubhouse."

Her hand is warm when I take it, callused in ways that speak of practical work rather than motorcycle riding. The touch sends a gentle ripple of magic between us—nothing like the electric jolt I feel with the twins, but a pleasant recognition, like finding a favorite song on the radio.

"Dawn," I reply, though she clearly already knows who I am. "And let me guess—for my own safety?"

Liora's lips curve in a knowing smile. "You're catching on quickly. But yes, actually. The ward boundaries are there for a reason." She gestures toward distant stone markers I can now see scattered at irregular intervals. They glow with faint blue light, similar to the crystal eyes in the Great Hall's hearth dragons.

I sigh, frustration about the twins resurfacing. "They won't tell me anything. Not about what I am, not about Sorin, and especially not about..." I trail off, unsure how to describe the pull between us.

"The bond?" Liora supplies, her expression softening with something like sympathy.

The word clicks into place like a key in a lock. Bond. Yes, that's what it feels like—a binding, a connection, a tether linking me to them. "Is that what it's called? This... pull I feel toward them?"

Liora hesitates, weighing her words carefully. "It's not my place to explain everything. Some things need to come from them." At my expression of annoyance, she adds, "But I can show you around, tell you about this place. That might answer some of your questions."

It's not what I want, but it's better than nothing. I nod, and she gestures for me to follow her down a stone path that winds into the gardens.

"This is what we call the Hidden Bowl," Liora explains as we walk. "The land protected by the ward, kept apart from the human world. What looks like a motorcycle clubhouse from the outside extends to nearly three hundred acres within the ward's boundaries."

"That's impossible," I protest, looking back at the clubhouse. From this angle, I can see it's much larger than it appeared from the Strip—a sprawling complex of buildings rather than the single structure I entered. "How can all this exist in the middle of Las Vegas without anyone noticing?"

Liora stops beside a flower whose petals glow with soft blue light—the same color as my magic. "Magic," she says simply. "The ward creates a pocket in reality, a space that exists alongside the human world but separate from it. Time moves differently here too, though you probably haven't noticed yet."

My mind struggles to accept what she's saying, even as my body and magic recognize the truth of it. "And the Black Pistons? They're not just a motorcycle club, are they?"

Her laugh is warm, genuine. "They are a motorcycle club. Just not only that." She begins walking again, guiding me past trees bearing fruit I've never seen—silver-skinned with flesh that glows from within. "The Black Pistons are primarily dragon shifters. The clubhouse serves as the heart of their territory, a place they can be themselves without hiding their true nature."

Dragon shifters. The words should sound ridiculous, but after everything I've seen, after the strange pull I feel toward the twins, I find myself nodding as if this makes perfect sense. It explains the dragon imagery everywhere, the scales tattooed on their skin, the primal power I sense in them.

"And what am I?" I ask, the question that's burned in me since Sorin first appeared at my door. "Riku called me a light witch."

Liora pauses beside a stone marker, its surface etched with runes that pulse faintly when I approach. She studies me for a moment before answering. "Light witches are rare—born perhaps once in several centuries. Your magic is pure creative energy, the opposite of shadow magic like Sorin's. It can heal or harm, create or destroy, depending on your will and control."

"And that's why Sorin wants me? Because my magic is rare?"

Her expression darkens. "Your power is coveted by many, not just Sorin. Light magic is one of the few forces that can counter shadow magic directly. In the wrong hands, it could upset the balance that keeps our worlds separate."

We crest a small hill, and the full expanse of the Hidden Bowl spreads before us—gardens giving way to orchards, then forests, a lake gleaming in the distance, and beyond it all, those shimmering mountains. I can see other buildings scattered throughout—small cottages, what might be training grounds, even what looks like a marketplace in the distance.

"So I can never go back," I say, the realization settling like a stone in my chest. "To my old life. To being normal."

Liora's hand touches my shoulder lightly. "Normal is relative. And would you really want to? Go back to not knowing what you are, to having your magic erupt unpredictably, to running from Sorin without understanding why?"

I consider her words, looking out over this magical landscape that defies everything I thought I knew about reality. The dress sways around my legs in the fragrant breeze, my dragon tattoo pulses with contentment, and the light inside me reaches toward this world like a flower turning to the sun.

"No," I admit, surprised by the truth in my answer. "I wouldn't."

A small smile plays on my lips as I take in the Hidden Bowl, its magic and mystery. The fear and confusion that have dogged me since my power first manifested begin to transform into something else—something that feels strangely like coming home.

The twins are still hiding things from me, still treating me like I can't handle the full truth. And I'm still determined to discover what that bond between us really means. But for the first time since crossing the ward, I feel a flutter of excitement where dread once lay.

I belong here. I don't know how or why yet, but I belong.