Claimed By Fire And Crown

Chapter 13

I didn’t sleep.

Or at least, I tried not to.

The fire had burned lower over the last hour, settling into softer flames that filled the room with a dim orange glow, but every time I closed my eyes, my thoughts circled right back to the same thing.

It reacted to you.

I sat curled into the corner of the couch with a blanket I’d reluctantly accepted from Rhaegar draped across my legs, staring at the fire like it might suddenly explain itself if I looked long enough. The house had gone quiet sometime after midnight. Quiet enough that I could hear the faint creak of old wood when the wind pushed against the outside walls.

Rhaegar was still awake.

I knew that without looking.

His presence sat somewhere deeper in the house, steady and impossible to ignore even with several rooms between us. It wasn’t loud or overwhelming like the Butcher’s had been. It felt grounded. Controlled.

Constant.

Which was somehow becoming worse.

I shifted against the couch cushions, pulling the blanket tighter around myself before leaning forward to rub at my eyes. Exhaustion pressed heavily against me now, but every time I started drifting too close to sleep, something sharp pulled me back awake again.

Questions.

Too many questions.

The fire cracked softly, and my gaze lifted automatically toward the flames. They flickered steadily for a few seconds before curling suddenly higher again when my attention settled fully on them.

I froze.

The movement lasted barely a second this time, but I saw it clearly.

The flames moved toward me.

Not randomly.

Not because the logs shifted.

Toward me.

Slowly, I lowered the blanket from my hands and stared harder, my pulse beginning to climb again. “Okay,” I muttered quietly to myself. “That’s not normal.”

“No,” Rhaegar said from behind me. “It isn’t.”

I nearly jumped off the couch.

My head snapped around so fast the blanket slipped halfway to the floor as I found him standing near the hallway entrance. He’d changed clothes sometime earlier, the dark shirt he wore now fitted more loosely, the sleeves pushed slightly up his forearms. His hair looked damp like he’d run water through it recently, though somehow he still looked fully awake while I felt like I was unraveling one thought at a time.

“You do that on purpose,” I accused.

One dark brow lifted faintly. “Walk?”

“Appear out of nowhere like some kind of cryptic ghost.”

A faint shift touched the corner of his mouth as he crossed toward the fireplace. “You were distracted.”

“That’s because my fireplace problem is getting worse.”

“Our fireplace problem,” he corrected calmly.

I stared at him. “That’s somehow not comforting.”

Rhaegar crouched near the fire then, one forearm resting loosely against his knee as he studied the flames for a moment. The firelight cast sharp shadows across his face, softening some of the colder edges I’d noticed earlier while making others stand out more.

“It’s reacting more strongly now,” he said.

“Why?”

His eyes lifted briefly to mine before returning to the fire. “Because you’re exhausted.”

I blinked. “That makes absolutely no sense.”

“It does if your control weakens when you’re tired.”

My stomach tightened.

Control.

The word hit something uneasy in me immediately because it implied there was actually something there to control in the first place.

I pulled the blanket closer around myself again, trying to ignore the sudden heat curling low beneath my ribs. “You keep talking like you already know what I am.”

Rhaegar was quiet for a second too long.

Then, “I know enough.”

“There it is again,” I muttered, frustration slipping through despite how tired I was. “You say that every time instead of giving me a real answer.”

His gaze shifted back toward me slowly. “Because you’re asking the wrong questions.”

“That’s convenient.”

“It’s true.”

I let out a tired breath and pushed myself upright from the couch, the blanket slipping from my legs as I stood. “Fine,” I said, pacing a few steps away from the fire before turning back toward him. “Then what questions am I supposed to ask?”

Rhaegar straightened slowly, watching me carefully as I crossed my arms tightly over my chest.

“You keep asking what you are,” he said. “You should be asking why you were hidden.”

The room went still.

Not physically.

Something inside me.

My throat tightened unexpectedly as I stared at him. “Hidden?”

“You were raised by wolves who believed you were weak,” he continued evenly. “You never shifted. Your abilities were suppressed. Someone made sure you stayed unnoticed.”

The words landed one after another, each one heavier than the last.

I shook my head immediately. “No.”

Rhaegar didn’t react.

“My stepmother hated me,” I continued, the words coming faster now. “That’s all this was. She wanted her daughter to have everything instead.”

“That’s part of it,” he said.

Part of it.

Not all.

I looked away sharply, my pulse beginning to pound harder in my ears. The fire behind him crackled again, louder this time, and heat rolled suddenly across my skin before fading just as quickly.

My control weakens when I’m tired.

The thought settled unpleasantly in my chest.

“I don’t understand any of this,” I admitted quietly.

For the first time since I’d met him, something in Rhaegar’s expression softened fully.

Not pity.

Something steadier.

“I know.”

The simple honesty in it hit harder than reassurance would have.

I rubbed a hand over my forehead before glancing back toward the fire again. The flames had settled lower now, calmer, but I couldn’t stop watching them.

“What happens if I lose control?” I asked after a long silence.

Rhaegar’s gaze stayed on me.

“You won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

I laughed softly then, tired and frustrated all at once as I shook my head. “You really need to stop saying things like that.”

“And you need to stop assuming you’re alone in this.”

The room fell quiet again after that.

Outside, wind brushed softly through the trees surrounding the house, the sound carrying faintly through the walls. I stood there for a second longer before moving back toward the couch, lowering myself onto the cushions with a quieter kind of exhaustion settling over me now.

Not fear exactly.

Just too much.

Rhaegar stayed near the fire, his attention drifting toward the flames again while silence stretched more comfortably between us this time.

Then—

“Why did the fire react to me?” I asked quietly.

Rhaegar didn’t answer immediately.

When he finally looked at me again, there was something heavier in his expression than before.

“Because,” he said carefully, “fire recognizes its own.”

My breath caught.

And deep inside my chest, something warm answered.