“When they first attacked me,” I say. “Earlier that same day.”
He tilts his head, his dark brows rising before scrunching together. “And you were able to call upon the flames multiple times?”
I nod.
“That’s…pretty unheard of.” He scratches his head as I try to make sense of his words.
“It’s not like I could hold the fire for long.”
His lips tighten, and he scratches his jaw. “The more you call upon your element, the stronger you’ll become. Your muscles will strengthen. Your body will adjust. I can show you what I’ve learned, teach you what made it easier for me when I first began wielding the light.”
He holds up his hand, and sunlight bursts from each of his fingers. Glorious beams of gold and orange, shooting out in lines, and I am transfixed, unable to look away.
He curls his fingers, and each ray bends in a dance that only he can control. He forms a fist with that same hand, and the sunlight disappears.
I force my jaw closed after realizing I’d allowed it to fall open. What he just did, what he cando…it’s nothing short of beautiful.
And he wants to help me.
Hecanhelp me.
But why does that make me want to pull out my hair? Rip it from the roots and embrace the pain? Why does pain seem more desirable than accepting what he’s offering?
Because it comes from a place of pity.
Because he’s a royal.
Because I’m stubborn.
But I doneedhis help.
I do needhim.
And even though it goes against everything I believe in, accepting the help of a prince,thisprince, someone I have always hated, I know I don’t really have a choice.
“Are you done saying stupid things?” I ask, my hands finding my hips, and his lips twitch again, letting me know hewantsto smile. Hewantsto laugh.
But he won’t.
“Oh, I highly doubt I’ll ever be done with that. At least in your eyes.”
And before I can think better of it,Ismile. For the very first time in his presence, I can feel myself relaxing, if only just barely.
“Then teach me,” I say, exhaling a long breath through my nose. “Teach me how to get a handle on this.” I raise my hand, turning my palm to the ceiling and forcing flames to emerge.
At first, nothing happens, which only makes me madder. I use that frustration to focus on manifesting the flames even more, and suddenly, they’re they are.
I look up at him, a proud smirk on my face, but his expression doesn’t match mine.
“What?” My flame disappears, and that familiar ache returns.
“You use anger to form your connection,” he notes.
“Is that wrong?”
“It’s not necessarily wrong, but it’s not good, either.” The concerned look doesn’t leave his face.
“I don’t understand why it matters,” I say flatly.
