Chapter 30
Finlay
I can’t sensewho the father is.
The frustration gnaws at me, a hollow ache in my chest where my fire usually burns bright. I’ve rested my hands on the egg several times since the guys helped me maneuver it into the nest, pressing my palms flat against the smooth obsidian shell, searching for any flicker of recognition. Any spark of my flame echoing back from within. But there’s nothing. Just the steady pulse of life, warm and strong beneath my fingers, keeping its secrets close.
While Raven sleeps, I shift into my phoenix form for the first time since she went to ground. The transformation ripples through me—bones hollowing, skin splitting to make way for feathers, my spine elongating into something sleek and aerodynamic. It’s a relief to shed my human shape, to feel the familiar weight of my true body settle around me like an old friend.
And then I do something I’ve never done in my impossibly long life.
I extinguish my flames.
The fire that has burned within me since the dawn of my existence—through countless deaths and rebirths, through millennia of searching for the mate who would end my curse—gutters and dies. The sensation is strange. Unsettling. Like holding my breath underwater, waiting for the moment my lungs will scream for air. But I hold steady. For Raven. For our egg. I won’t risk scorching the precious life growing inside that shell.
Without my flames, I look... ordinary.
Phoenixes have hidden among flocks of peacocks in our smaller forms since time began. They are the creatures that most resemble us—the only ones who could hope to camouflage our magnificence. But where peacocks shimmer in shades of sapphire and emerald, we burn in hues of bronze, gold, and rusty orange. Our feathers catch the light differently, holding it, warming it, making it dance. Our tail feathers fan out like a peacock’s proud display, except at the end of each plume, instead of a rounded eye, there’s a teardrop. And within that teardrop, what looks like a living flame forever frozen in amber and crimson.
Now, without my fire, those flames are dark. Dormant. I am a phoenix pretending to be something lesser, and it chafes against every instinct I possess.
But I would do far more than this for her. For them.
The guys place the egg in the nest I built, their movements careful and reverent. Nearly three feet of obsidian perfection, the shell gleams in the bioluminescent glow of the cavern, iridescent swirls dancing across its surface like oil on water.Solaris and Corvus lower it into the center of the woven branches, their hands meeting beneath its weight, their faces tight with concentration and barely contained awe.
I take my true form and climb into the nest, my talons finding purchase on the blackwood and ironbark branches. The structure holds firm beneath me—I built it to last, reinforced every joint, padded every surface. I settle over the egg, feeling its warmth seep up through my breast feathers, and something ancient and instinctual clicks into place.
This is right. This is what I was made for.
Over the almost three days we waited, I plucked myself bald.
It’s not a conscious decision at first. I simply noticed a feather that seemed loose, and I pulled it. Then another. Then another. The soft down of my breast comes away in clumps, drifting to line the nest around the egg, creating an insulating layer of bronze and gold. Each feather I remove is a small sting, a tiny sacrifice, but I can’t seem to stop. The compulsion is overwhelming—an ancient drive I didn’t know I possessed until this moment.
I need to give everything to this egg. Every part of me.
By the end of the first day, my breast is bare and pink, tender to the touch. The skin pulses with residual warmth, and I press it against the egg’s shell, letting my body heat transfer directly to the life within. The contact is intimate in a way I can’t describe. I feel the faint flutter of a heartbeat against my flesh—or maybe I imagine it. Either way, it brings tears to my eyes that sizzle and evaporate before they can fall.
When hunger finally drives me from the nest, I shift back to human form and eat ravenously, barely tasting the food. Andwhen I return and shift back into my phoenix, the feathers have regenerated. Soft and new and ready to be plucked again.
I watch my mate sleep, her massive dragoness form curled on the warm sand near the nest. Her black scales rise and fall with each slow breath, the white plates of her skull-face peaceful in repose. Even in sleep, she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Hundreds of years of existence, and nothing has ever compared to her.
Orpheus walks back into the chamber, his bare feet padding softly against the stone. His black hair is disheveled, falling across his forehead in messy waves, and shadows smudge the skin beneath his gold eyes—evidence of the sleepless vigil he’s been keeping alongside the rest of us. He moves with the fluid grace of his basilisk, even in human form, each step silent and deliberate.
He walks to the edge of the nest and stops, his feet sinking slightly into the soft sand. “Can I see?”
His voice is quiet, respectful. He knows what this means to me—to all of us. His golden eyes look hopeful as he stares at me, and I dip my feathered head in permission.
Carefully, I stand and raise my body, exposing the egg beneath me. The movement sends a shiver of cold across my breast, the absence of the egg’s warmth immediately noticeable. I’ve grown accustomed to its presence, its heat, its steady pulse of life.
Orpheus’s breath catches.
The black scales are clearly visible on the shell now, a pattern emerging from what once appeared to be solid obsidian. They’re a mix—some smooth and glossy like Raven’s belly scales, others ridged and textured like the armored plates along her spine.The iridescent swirls seem to follow the scale pattern, creating something that looks almost like a map. Or a promise.
“Wow.” Orpheus leans closer, his gold eyes wide, tracking every detail of the shell’s surface. “That egg is bigger than the eggs Raven and I were born in.”
I can’t respond in this form—phoenixes don’t have the vocal cords for human speech—so I simply tilt my head, acknowledging his observation. He’s right. This egg is massive, even by dragon standards. Nearly three feet of potential curled within that shell. My chest swells with pride that has nothing to do with whether the child carries my fire.
This is Raven’s child. That makes it mine, regardless of blood.
