Flame (Dragon Triad Duet Book 2)

  Flame

  Dragon Triad Duet Book 2

  Lana Sky

  Also by Lana Sky

  The Ellie Gray Chronicles

  Drain Me

  Chain Me

  The Complete Ellie Gray Chronicles

  Beautiful Monsters

  Crescendo

  Refrain

  Mezzo

  Allegro

  Club XXX

  Maxim: Submit

  Maxim: Obey

  Maxim: Surrender

  Maxim: The Complete Trilogy

  Vadim: Control

  Vadim: Corrupt

  Vadim: Conquer

  Vadim: The Complete Trilogy

  Savage Fall Duet

  King’s Men

  King’s Horses

  The Complete Savage Fall Duet

  The War of Roses Universe

  The War of Roses

  XV: (Fifteen)

  VII: (Seven)

  I: (One)

  The Complete War of Roses Trilogy

  Of Mice and Men

  Ruthless King

  Queen of Thorns

  Painted Sin

  A Touch of Dark

  A Taste like Sin

  The Complete Painted Sin Duet

  Standalones

  Pretty Perfect

  Crossed Lines

  Dragon Triad Duet

  Moth

  Flame

  The Complete Dragon Triad Duet

  Rockstar Rebels

  Dirty Lyrics (Newsletter Exclusive)

  Flame

  Flame By Lana Sky

  Copyright © 2020 by Lana Sky

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks so much to everyone who supported this draft along the way, including the many beta readers who provided encouragement! Please keep in mind that this story includes dark, graphic and explicit content matter that may not be suitable for readers under the age of 18—or for readers who are uncomfortable with the following subject matter: explicit sex, mentions of sexual abuse, mentions of domestic abuse, and graphic depictions of violence.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  A Word from the Author

  About the Author

  Also by Lana Sky

  Chapter One

  I still remember the first time I ever put the tip of my pen to a sheet of fresh paper and scribbled whatever came to mind. What that felt like. In a word? Clarity. I went from voiceless to limitless. My words had power again, however little it might have been.

  Amid the deepest depths of my brother’s obsession and my parents’ indifference, I had an identity all other aspects of my life had stripped away.

  I became a writer.

  For years it’s been the one thing I’ve always excelled at. Creating. Crafting. Emoting.

  And yet, lately, it feels like I’ve run out of the right words. My emotions can’t be wrestled onto paper anymore. Gone is that defining identity, and once again, I’m a blob molded by my life circumstances.

  So much for being a writer. I can’t even voice the truth out loud—the event that, in so many ways, led to this present like the first in a series of falling dominoes.

  A story that isn’t really mine to tell.

  Ironically, I used to imagine what life might be like outside of the cage my past forced me to craft around myself. I just never envisioned this—freedom found in a monster’s lair, far different from the one I grew up fearing. His world is darker, stranger, lonelier…

  And in so many ways, hauntingly beautiful.

  I’m a moth, ignited by the intoxicating flame that tempted me to fly so near to it. In the aftermath, all I can do is lie on the ashes of my wings, blinking up at a beige ceiling as my brain struggles to reconcile everything that has transpired within the past forty-eight-hours, ending with me alone in the bed of a man I barely know.

  Rafe.

  The man embodies so many contradictions it’s hard to keep track of them all.

  Judging from the coolness of the sheets beside me, I doubt he slept here. I strain my ears, but I don’t pick up any noise or footsteps throughout the rest of the apartment, either. The only clue of his presence I find at all, once I creep from his room and down the hall, is an empty cup on the kitchen counter beside a brown paper bag of leftover takeout from last night.

  As I approach it, I happen to glance from one of the many windows at the street below. It’s too early for rush-hour traffic, but several cars dart past at a steady rate—and my heart lurches at the sight of each one. No matter how hard I try to talk myself out of the growing paranoia, I swear every passing vehicle resembles Branden’s.

  Is Branden’s. Though it’s only a matter of time before he comes after me. Running was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done where my brother is concerned. He requires the same logic my father drilled into me around his hunting dogs—never turn your back. Never let your guard down.

  And, most importantly, never give the beasts a reason to chase.

  Not that he has to do much work to find me anyway. I spot my phone resting on the coffee table, though I didn’t put it there. Ignorant of its use as a tracking device, someone even hooked it up to a charger he must have retrieved from my apartment—though he left it off. That little token of kindness isn’t the only one I spy as I rise to my feet and start to pace from room to room.

  I spot my shoes beside the door leading downstairs. My toothbrush and toiletries have been left for me on the counter in the bathroom. Three boxes of my belongings sit piled in a distant corner of the hall, rescued from my apartment. Out of consideration, some of my clothing has been neatly folded on the top box for easy access.

  That same person probably left my bag within view too. Inside it, I find all those trivial reminders of a life that seems like a stranger’s to me now. A crumpled business card and a battered gold lighter are just meaningless trinkets. Even my journal. Its pages are still filled with old writing, including my draft essay for the Fenwick program—my only hope for continuing school in the fall.

  The proposed topic? Describe and conquer your inner demons.

  I laugh out loud at the idea of it. How pathetic was that? To pin my entire success on a whim. My “talent.” Scoffing, I flip the book open and scan the pages. All those pretty, carefully penned words read flat. Empty. Useless, emotionless lies. For the first time in my life, I’m numb as I stroke my thumb along a page. There is no spark.

  But one person ensured that I wasn’t without this possession anyway—an amount of caring that contrasts sharply with the dark-eyed figure dwelling inside my head. The creature capable of sowing the heavy footsteps I catch advancing up the rickety staircase leading to the apartment’s entrance. I know even befo
re the door opens who is behind it. I can smell him—ash and smoke.

  His very presence is heralded by a shift in the air, like a drop in temperature warning of a storm. Rafe.

  “You’re awake,” he grunts in acknowledgment while closing the door behind him. He’s wearing a pair of gray sweats and a white beater top—a casual alternative to his usual jeans and black leather. In his hands is another brown paper bag and a faint aroma emanates from it, making my stomach rumble.

  “Come here.” With a curt nod, he beckons me into the kitchen where he unloads the contents of his bag on the counter—two steaming breakfast sandwiches wrapped in paper. He hands one to me, claiming the second for himself. As our eyes meet, his expression softens, his lips quirking into a frown.

  “You bruise fucking easily, rabbit,” he says, stroking my cheek with his thumb. His eyes travel down to my throat, fully exposed by the wide neckline of the shirt I’m wearing now—an oversized black one of his. The earnest sympathy in his tone makes me stiffen self-consciously. Apart from last night, I have no fresher mental image to compare my appearance to.

  I can’t even look in the mirror.

  “Is it that bad?” I ask.

  “Damn right,” Rafe says, whistling through his teeth. “I doubt even the old ‘sunglasses’ trick will help you, bunny.”

  I brush my fingers along my jaw and barely feel any pain. It’s like I’m numbed to everything but the here and now. His smell takes precedence over any other sensation, his nearness overwhelming.

  Whenever I try to think about the million other pressing concerns in my life, only a few stick out.

  “I have to work today,” I say absently, though panic sets in at the thought of leaving. Branden will be looking for me, for one. My lease runs out by the end of the week thanks to his efforts. I have no idea how to navigate my usual routine, taking all of that into account. “That’s what I’m worried about,” I add with a tattered laugh. “I have to work today.”

  “I’ll talk to Zhang,” Rafe says, referring to my boss. He turns away from me and rummages through the fridge, withdrawing a brown bottle of beer. Despite the early hour, he pops the lid off on the edge of the door and takes a deep swig, throwing his head back.

  For the first time, I step outside of my own worries and put myself in his shoes. He looks almost as bad as I feel. I have a sinking suspicion as to why.

  “The missing girl. Faith,” I say thickly. “You knew her.”

  “Yeah…” He swipes at his mouth with the back of his hand, his gaze distant. “She was a good kid. What happened to her is fucked up.”

  He sounds genuinely upset, and I hate the jealousy that unfurls when I try to imagine why. Just how well did he know her?

  No better than Branden, a part of me snarls in response. He’s the one who had her hair clip, you idiot.

  Ashamed, I focus my attention to the window as another car drives past. A sharp pain in my hand makes me realize that my fingers are clenched, the nails cutting into my palms. “Do… Do they know what happened to her?” I whisper.

  Maybe I’m a masochist, feeding off the weight of the heavy sigh he releases. His obvious regret drills in this reality like a hammer on a nail—this is real.

  “Not yet. They found her body on the outskirts of the city, and—” he breaks off with a grimace. “I’ll spare you the details.”

  Traffic is still moving down below, and another car zips by too quickly to inspect in full. I tear my gaze away and find myself staring down the hall instead, toward a stack of boxes. Tell him, my conscience warns. Tell him now.

  “She was in trouble,” I say, skirting around the truth again. Trouble that wound up with her dead and a piece of jewelry hidden among my belongings. My palms grow slick with sweat at the memory, my pulse increasing. “H-How?”

  Rafe grunts, and I turn to find him taking another sip of beer. “She got caught up with the wrong motherfuckers and paid the price for it. And I couldn’t help her…”

  “Her friend,” I say. “The one we saw the night of the vigil. She claimed a man, DW, was the one bothering her—” Not Branden for whatever it’s worth. “Do you know who that is?”

  “No,” he growls. “If I did, I’d be ripping the sick fucker apart, wouldn’t I?”

  “And Faith never told you anything?”

  “I know he’s a cop,” he says in an icy tone. “And that he was using her somehow. As a drug mule? An informant? I don’t know. It’s not like I can go ask Gino about it, now can I?” He slams the bottle onto the counter and takes a bite from his sandwich, an obvious clue that he’s done talking about it.

  For now.

  But I can fill in some of the blanks on my own. Faith fell in with his rival Gino—a thug who owns what Mara deemed a “tittie bar.” There she met a monster who supposedly made her do awful things.

  A monster who found her silence well worth killing her for.

  But that doesn’t explain why her hair clip is in a shoebox in this very apartment. A threat? A warning? Branden isn’t reckless. He took my only other piece of leverage against him, ensuring no one would believe me even if I came forward.

  He wouldn’t implicate himself in another murder so easily.

  So why taunt me with that item in particular?

  The more I think about it, the more confusing it all becomes until I’m rubbing at my throbbing temples, trying to make sense of the tangled web.

  “Drink,” Rafe commands, drawing my attention.

  I blink to find the rim of the beer bottle beneath my nose.

  “I don’t drink,” I insist, shaking my head.

  “The fuck you don’t.” Rafe fixes me with another searching look, but one devoid of sympathy. An eyebrow raised, he tilts the bottle toward me again. “Trust me, bunny. You need a fucking drink. You look like shit.”

  It’s the way he says it that makes me inch forward and warily press my lips to the bottle. Shit, some level of despair beyond any flowery prose or descriptor.

  Satisfied, he manipulates the drink with one hand, allowing me to take the smallest, most cautious sip. It’s gross, and I choke down the liquid as he pulls the bottle away.

  “Did you sleep?” he asks next.

  I shake my head, and he scoffs as though I’ve insulted him.

  “Come on.” Grabbing his sandwich, he pivots on his heel, approaching the door.

  “Wait…” I contemplate coming clean now. Telling him everything. I have to. “I need to tell you—”

  “Whatever you want to say, hold it,” Rafe snaps with surprising intensity. “I don’t want to hear shit until I’ve eaten.” He heads for the stairs, leaving me no choice but to follow.

  The second I cross over the threshold after him, paranoia plays a chilling game on my psyche. Branden could be lurking below right now.

  Waiting for me.

  “It’s okay.”

  I look up to find Rafe halfway down the staircase. “No one’s going to fuck with you here,” he says.

  “You don’t know that.” My fear isn’t faked for the sake of drama. Branden always has a way of controlling me—no matter where I go. Nausea crawls up my throat as I recall the latest example. “He… He’s been tracking me through my phone—”

  “No one will ever fuck with you here,” Rafe insists. “Trust me.” He juggles the items in his arms to free up one hand that he extends to me. The fingers are bruised and riddled with scrapes, and yet it’s still the most appealing sight I’ve been presented with all morning.

  Finally, I entwine my fingers with his. Rather than head for the front of his shop, he takes me past the back room. There, the short hallway ends at the door leading into a narrow alley. Cool air raises goosebumps over my flesh as we step out into the morning, drawing attention to the fact that all I’m wearing is his shirt, nothing else.

  “In here.” He opens a nearby door that conceals another staircase. A doorway at the top of it exits onto a wide space beneath the open sky—the building’s roof.

  With
a confidence that betrays just how often he must come here, Rafe guides me forward to a waist-high length of plywood spanning the edge of the rooftop. Below, traffic picks up, and I can’t resist scanning every car, hunting for a familiar model.

  “Don’t,” Rafe warns as if reading my mind. “No one can see us up here.”

  He sits with his back to the railing and arranges his food and drink beside him. “Sit.”

  Once I do, he grabs his sandwich and takes another ravenous bite. “Eat,” he commands with his mouth still full.

  I gingerly sample a bite of mine, registering the flavors of sausage, egg, and cheese. “It’s good.”

  But he didn’t bring me up here to eat. Blazing in the growing sunlight, his gaze contains a million unanswered questions. Much like a book with a blank cover, it’s impossible to discern what he’s thinking at a glance. I have to touch him—running my fingers along his forearm the same way I would flip through pages—and tension turns his muscles to stone.

  “Damn right, it is,” he agrees with my assessment, leaning his head back. His jaw tightens with a hint of seriousness he’s concealed until now. “So, tell me… Those cameras I found in your place. Were they your idea or his?”

  My cheeks catch fire. The cameras. One in my living room above my TV placed in plain sight. The other, presumably hidden in my bedroom without my knowledge or consent. God only knows what the footage might reveal—me dressing. Undressing. Sleeping…