Jag

Jag twirled a flame between his fingers as he stalked through the hotel corridor to the suite he shared with Emma. He should've known better than to expect much from the bloody Fae, but he'd had to get out of this place if he could, and once he was out there, he'd had to hear out that offer of a deal, no matter how he felt about the Fae. He fucking hated how much he'd hoped, too, for a few precious seconds. He still felt whiplash from that rollercoaster of emotions, and he didn't know what to do with himself.

So he was headed back to his room to roll up a joint, and he'd smoke it by the fireplace. It wasn't long before he was lying on his back in the common room, smoking up, a fire crackling wood beside him, and fuck if it was summer. In a flimsy tank top and a pair of swim shorts, he'd survive. He was used to being too hot in summer anyway.

He was never giving up his fire.