Marcus stood in the doorway for what felt like forever, his ice-blue eyes taking in every detail of the destruction. The melted desk. The burned photograph on the floor. My hands, still faintly glowing with residual heat.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than I'd ever heard it.
"How long have you been able to do that?"
I opened my mouth, then closed it again. How was I supposed to answer that? Five minutes ago, I didn't even know I could do "that," whatever "that" was.
"I... I don't know," I stammered. "It just happened. I touched the photo and then—"
"Show me your hands."
It wasn't a request. Marcus stepped into the room, closing the door behind him with the soft click that meant we wouldn't be interrupted. His movements were careful, controlled, like he was approaching a spooked animal.
I held out my hands, palms up. They looked normal now, but I could still feel something humming beneath my skin. Like electricity, but warmer.
Marcus moved closer, and I caught his familiar scent—expensive cologne mixed with something sharper. Something that reminded me of winter forests and cold air. He'd always smelled different from other people, though I'd never thought to question it.
"May I?" He gestured toward my hands.
I nodded, not trusting my voice. His fingers were warm when they touched my palms, tracing the lines like he was reading my fortune. But his hands were shaking slightly, and Marcus never shook.
"Daddy?" The childhood name slipped out before I could stop it. "What's happening to me?"
Something flickered across his face—pain, maybe, or guilt. He dropped my hands and took a step back.
"Sit down, Princess."
I looked around the office. My usual chair was now blocked by the melted remains of his desk. Marcus gestured to the leather couch by the windows, the one where I used to curl up and do homework while he worked late.
I perched on the edge of the cushions, my bare feet tucked under me. Marcus walked to the window, hands clasped behind his back, staring out at the Seattle skyline. The rain had stopped, leaving streaks on the glass that caught the city lights.
"The photo you found," he said without turning around. "Where did you see it before?"
"I haven't. That's the point." My voice came out sharper than intended. "Who are those people, Marcus? And why do I look exactly like them?"
He was quiet for so long I thought he might not answer. When he finally turned back to me, his expression was unreadable.
"Their names were Elena and Vincent Draven. They were... friends of mine. Close friends."
Friends. The word sat wrong, like he'd chosen it carefully to avoid saying something else.
"And the little girl?"
"You."
The simple answer hit me like a physical blow. I'd suspected it, but hearing him confirm it made everything real in a way that terrified me.
"But you said my parents died in a car accident. You said there were no other relatives, no family left."
Marcus walked to his liquor cabinet and poured himself a glass of whiskey. His movements were precise, but I noticed how his fingers gripped the crystal tumbler.
"I lied."
The words hung in the air between us. Twenty years of bedtime stories, family dinners, birthday parties—all built on a lie.
"Why?" My voice cracked on the word.
He took a sip of whiskey before answering. "Because the truth was... complicated. Elena and Vincent weren't ordinary people, Phoenix. They belonged to something called the Dragon Clans."
"Dragon Clans?" I almost laughed. "That sounds like something out of a fantasy novel."
"Does it?" Marcus set down his glass and gestured toward the melted desk. "Ten minutes ago, you would have said the same thing about spontaneous combustion."
He had a point.
"The Dragon Clans were an ancient bloodline," Marcus continued. "Shapeshifters, like the werewolf packs, but different. More... volatile. They could control fire, manipulate heat, even predict certain types of danger. Your parents were from two of the oldest Dragon families."
I stared at him, trying to process what he was telling me. "Shapeshifters? You mean they could turn into actual dragons?"
"Not exactly. The transformation abilities were largely lost generations ago. But the fire control, the enhanced senses, the longevity—those traits remained strong in certain bloodlines."
"And I have this... this dragon blood."
"Yes."
The simple confirmation sent a chill through me. I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the lingering warmth in my hands.
"What happened to them? My real parents."
Marcus's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "There was a conflict between the Dragon Clans and several werewolf packs. Territorial disputes that escalated into violence. Elena and Vincent were caught in the crossfire."
"Crossfire." I repeated the word, tasting its inadequacy. "They were murdered."
"They were casualties of a war that should never have started."
The careful phrasing made my stomach twist. Marcus was a lawyer before he became whatever he was now. He knew how to use words to say exactly what he intended and nothing more.
"And you just happened to find me afterward?"
Marcus returned to the window, his reflection ghostlike in the rain-streaked glass. "Elena and Vincent were my allies in trying to prevent the conflict from escalating. Before they died, they asked me to look after you if anything happened to them."
"They knew they were in danger."
"Yes."
"And they trusted you to take care of their daughter."
"Yes."
I studied his profile, looking for tells. The slight tension around his eyes. The way his left hand kept flexing and unflexing at his side. Marcus was good at controlling his expressions, but I'd been watching him for twenty years.
"There's more, isn't there? Something you're not telling me."
He turned back to me, and for a moment, his carefully constructed composure cracked. I saw something raw in his expression—grief, maybe, or regret.
"There's always more, Princess. But some truths are dangerous. Some knowledge comes with a price you're not ready to pay."
"That's my choice to make."
"No." His voice hardened. "It's not. You're twenty-five years old. You've lived a safe, protected life because I made sure of it. Because Elena and Vincent trusted me to keep you safe from the world that killed them."
The possessive edge in his tone made something prickle along my spine. "Safe from what, exactly?"
"From people who would use your abilities. From those who see dragon blood as either a weapon to be wielded or a threat to be eliminated."
I stood up from the couch, restless energy buzzing through me. "And what do you see it as?"
Marcus was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was soft again.
"I see it as part of who you are. Part of what makes you extraordinary."
The words should have been comforting. Instead, they made me feel like a specimen under glass.
"So what happens now? Do I just pretend this never happened? Go back to board meetings and charity galas like I didn't just melt your desk with my bare hands?"
"No." Marcus moved to his phone. "I'm going to make some calls. There are people who specialize in helping those with... unique abilities. Trainers who can teach you control."
"Dragon trainers." I couldn't keep the skepticism out of my voice.
"People who understand what you're going through. Who can help you channel these abilities safely."
I wanted to ask more questions—a thousand more questions—but exhaustion was starting to creep in. The adrenaline rush from the fire incident was wearing off, leaving me drained and shaky.
"I think... I think I need to sleep. Process all this."
Marcus nodded. "That's probably wise. But Phoenix?" He waited until I met his eyes. "I need you to promise me something. Don't try to use your abilities again tonight. Not until we can get you proper instruction."
"What if I can't control it?"
"You can. You stopped the fire once it started. That shows more control than most novices manage." He paused. "And if you feel the heat building up, run cold water over your hands. Sometimes that helps."
The specific advice suggested he'd dealt with this kind of situation before. How many other dragon-blooded individuals had Marcus encountered over the years?
"Okay," I agreed. "I'll be careful."
He walked me to the door, his hand briefly touching my shoulder as I passed. "Sweet dreams, Princess."
I made my way down the marble hallway to my room, my footsteps echoing in the silence. The Blackthorne penthouse was huge—too big for just two people, really—but tonight it felt especially empty.
My room was exactly as I'd left it that morning. King-sized bed with white silk sheets, walk-in closet bigger than most studio apartments, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Elliott Bay. Everything perfect, expensive, carefully curated.
Everything that had belonged to Phoenix Blackthorne, not Phoenix Draven.
I changed into pajamas on autopilot, my mind still spinning with everything Marcus had told me. Dragon blood. Ancient bloodlines. Parents who'd died in some kind of supernatural war.
It should have felt like a revelation. Instead, it felt like the first piece of a puzzle I didn't want to solve.
I was brushing my teeth when I noticed it.
In the mirror, reflected behind me, there were marks on the wall I'd never seen before. Four parallel scratches gouged deep into the paint, about shoulder-height. They looked old, like they'd been painted over multiple times but kept bleeding through.
I turned around, toothbrush still in my mouth, and stared at the marks directly.
They weren't random scratches. They were too uniform, too deliberate. And they were exactly the right size and spacing to be claw marks.
Very large claw marks.
I spit out the toothpaste and moved closer to the wall, running my fingers over the gouges. The paint was smooth, but I could feel the indentations underneath. Someone—or something—had clawed at this wall with enough force to dig furrows in the drywall.
But when? I'd lived in this room for twenty years. How had I never noticed these before?
Unless they'd been hidden. Painted over so many times that they'd been invisible until... until what? Until my dragon blood awakened and somehow made them visible again?
I traced the claw marks with one finger, and that familiar tingling sensation shot through my hand. The scratches seemed to warm under my touch, like they were responding to something in my bloodline.
A memory surfaced—vague and dreamlike, the way childhood memories sometimes are. I was very small, maybe five or six, crying about something. And there was a voice, a woman's voice, whispering comfort in a language I didn't recognize. Warm arms holding me, and the scent of jasmine and smoke.
Elena. Had Elena been in this room? Had she left these marks?
But that didn't make sense. Marcus said my parents had died before he took me in. He'd found me after they were killed.
So whose claws had made these marks? And why were they in my bedroom?
I backed away from the wall, my heart starting to race again. Every answer Marcus had given me tonight just led to more questions. And the more I thought about his explanations, the more they felt like carefully constructed half-truths.
Friends of mine. Casualties of war. Some truths are dangerous.
What wasn't he telling me?
I climbed into bed but didn't turn off the lights. Instead, I stared at those claw marks on the wall, trying to make sense of what they meant.
One thing was certain—tomorrow I was going to start looking for answers Marcus wasn't ready to give me.
But first, I needed to figure out exactly what questions I should be asking.
End of Chapter 2