He shook his head, an ironic smile lifting the corner of his mouth. “Officially, I don’t exist. I suppose I must have a birth certificate on file somewhere, but I wouldn’t know where to begin searching for it. I don’t even remember the country where I was born.”
“You have an English accent,” she said, the strangeness of that only just striking her.
His jaw tightened. “Corbin,” he said, and nothing more.
His warlock. The only person who’d talked to him. Of course he’d grow up copying his captor’s speech patterns. And if this Corbin was English, no wonder that he’d fled here to the far side of America. Great Britain was a shifter-ruled country. Rose didn’t know if the Parliament of Shifters was aware of warlocks, but they certainly came down very, very hard on anything that threatened either the secrecy or the wellbeing of shifter citizens.
“Well. We can’t get you a passport, and that means a plane ticket is out,” she said. “I think our best bet is to get as far north as we can, then shift to cross the border. Canada’s a Commonwealth realm—our Queen is still their ceremonial head of state. It’s a shifter-friendly country. We just need to find a British embassy, and we’ll be safe.”
“Safe,” he echoed, as if it was a foreign word. “You really think that your country will grant me asylum? I am—”
“You’re not dangerous,” she said firmly, cutting him off. She hesitated, but she had to be honest with him. “They might have…conditions, though. I’ve only heard of a few shifters with your sort of elemental power. The sea dragon Pearl Emperor, for water, and the Queen herself, for earth.”
His hand tightened on his knee. “I will not be used for harm. Not ever again.”
She put her hand over his, rubbing her thumb in gentle circles over his hot skin. “I won’t let that happen. If the British government tries to harness your abilities, we’ll go somewhere else. It doesn’t matter where we live, as long as we’re together.”
He was quiet for the next hour or so, lost in his own thoughts. Rose left him in peace, the mate bond reassuring her that nothing was wrong. He just needed some time to breathe, and be.
They stopped at a tiny roadside diner for lunch. Blaze stared down at the single-page menu in frank alarm, clearly paralyzed by options, so Rose ordered for both of them. Nothing fancy—fried chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans—but Blaze treated the food like a revelation. She enjoyed his astonishment, and ordered four types of dessert.
“What did they feed you in there?” she asked, as he gazed at a forkful of apple pie as if it was a work of art.
“Military rations.” He turned the fork, feeding her the flaky morsel. “Nothing like this.”
She licked her lips, tasting cream and cinnamon as if for the first time. The light of the mate bond glowing in her soul made everything fresh and new, reborn.
Even the sun-faded diner, the scratched plastic tabletops, the worn linoleum floor—they were all perfect, beautiful. Young lovers had carved that heart into the table. The scuffs on the floor were from weary feet, finding a place to sit down and rest. The old diner’s imperfections were like laughter lines or stretch marks. They were scars of love.
“I’d like to have a place like this,” she said wistfully.
Blaze’s eyebrows shot up. “A restaurant?”
She snorted. “Believe me, no one would want to pay for my cooking. No, not a restaurant. But a place where people could come to be together. A safe haven, somewhere to relax, just for shifters. A pub, maybe.”
From his quizzical look, this was evidently one aspect of English culture he hadn’t picked up from Corbin.
She patted his hand. “Another thing that will be easier to show you than explain.”
A heated gleam lit his eyes. His leg slid against hers under the table. “Will I enjoy it as much as the last thing you showed me?”
She laughed, feeding him another bite of pie. “Maybe not quite that much.”
His wicked expression faded as he chewed and swallowed. She thought at first that he was just lost in flavor again, but he put down his fork rather than scooping up another mouthful. She sensed a slight darkening down the mate bond, something shadowing his thoughts.
“What is it?” she asked.
“You have a dream.” He looked down at his plate. “I don’t know how I fit in with it.”
“You’re my mate. You are my dream.”
“Yes, but…” He let out his breath, running a hand through his hair. “You have a life, a place you come from, family. I don’t know…any of those things. All I know is fire and destruction. What can I do, in your world?”
Reflexive reassurances sprang to her lips, but she held them back. He needed more than empty platitudes. He looked so lost, so out of place, this creature out of legend dropped into mundane life. What would he do?
“Firefighter,” she said firmly.
His gaze jerked up, startled, as though he hadn’t actually expected her to come up with an answer. “What?”