Flamebound

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“What are you doing?”

He doesn’t so much as pause in the intricately difficult body movements that are part martial arts and part ancient Egyptian magic as he answers, “Preparing.”

I take a moment to study him—I can’t help it. He’s so beautiful standing there, dressed in loose black pants and nothing else, his heavily muscled back gleaming beneath the sweat-slicked bronze of his skin. His long black hair is tied neatly at the nape of his neck and a series of black Seba tattoos dance across his shoulders with each movement that he makes. Directly in the middle of the ancient Egyptian stars is a gold circlet of Isis—proof that even the goddess knows he belongs to me . . . just as I belong to him.

Still a little uncomfortable with the thought—we’ve been an official couple for just over a week now—I focus on my end of the conversation.

“For what? World War Three?”

But even as I ask the question, I know the answer. It’s been eight days since Declan found me onstage at the Paramount Theatre, eight days since the core of darkness I’d always sensed in him had been unleashed. He’s barely slept since then. Barely worked, barely eaten. Every ounce of power he has is focused on revenge.

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