JADE
An hour of dancing later,my feet are killing me, and I need a break from Oliver’s touch.
“Food?” he suggests as another waltz ends. “You look like you could use some sustenance.”
Thank the gods.
“Yes, please. Just make sure it’s more than a few pomegranate seeds.”
He laughs—that easy, warm sound that makes me hate myself a little more—and guides me toward the appetizer tables near the Music Fire. The spread is insane: tiny phoenixes made of spun sugar that burst into harmless flames when you bite them, savory tarts with centers that glow like embers, and crystallized fire flowers that crackle on your tongue.
As Oliver’s loading a small plate for me, his friends materialize out of nowhere.
“Did you see what happened with Leo during Applied Flamecraft?” one of them asks, launching into a story about exploding practice dummies.
I tune them out, reaching for what looks like a relatively normal cheese puff when Logan passes by me, close enoughthat his sleeve brushes my bare arm. The contact is nothing, barely there, but my whole body goes alert, every nerve ending suddenly awake.
“Second floor. Now.” His voice is low and urgent, with an edge that makes my stomach flip. Then he’s gone, disappearing into the crowd like smoke, but not before I catch the rigid line of his shoulders and the way his jaw clenches like he’s grinding his teeth to dust.
My hands shake as I set down my plate, mentally mapping out a way to do this. Luckily, Oliver’s still talking, gesturing about proper flame control or whatever, which should make my escape relatively easy.
“Be right back,” I interrupt, touching his arm lightly. “Restroom.”
He starts to turn. “I’ll walk you?—”
“No.” The word comes out too sharp, and I force a laugh that probably sounds deranged. “I mean, stay with your friends. I’ll just be a minute.”
“You sure?” he asks, but someone’s already pulling him back into the conversation about Leo’s spectacular failure.
“Totally sure. I’ll be back soon.” I escape in a flash, weaving through dancers and dodging servers with trays of those exploding sugar phoenixes.
The grand staircase is less crowded, and I take the steps two at a time, trying not to look like I’m rushing toward something I shouldn’t.
The second floor overlooks the ballroom below, with velvet benches tucked into alcoves and massive windows showing the dark island beyond. I move past couples deep in conversation, glancing desperately in each alcove while trying not to ruin anyone’s privacy.
Finally, I find him.
Logan’s waiting in the alcove in the deepest back corner, and the way he’s standing—coiled tight and ready to snap—makes my heart pound even harder.
He grabs my wrist the moment I step inside, pulls me to the back of the alcove, and presses his palm against the carved stone.
One of Hecate’s hidden doors shimmers open.
“Inside,” he says, and the word comes out rough, almost pained.
I follow him through, and the moment the door closes, he spins and backs me against the wall. Not touching—not quite—but close enough that I can feel the heat rolling off him in waves.
His hands brace on either side of my head, caging me in, making my breathing slow.
“Do you have any idea,” he says, his voice low and dangerous, his eyes studying every inch of my face as if he’s searching for a flaw and finding none, “what it’s been like watching him touch you all night?”
My heart pounds, and I swallow, startled by the intensity of his reaction. “This is what you asked?—”
“I know what I asked.” He leans closer, actual flames dancing in his eyes. “But seeing him touch you, seeing you smile at him...” His body trembles with the effort of restraint, muscles coiled so tight they might snap. “I was three seconds away from ripping him apart right there in front of everyone.”
The raw violence in his voice makes my breath catch. Because this isn’t the controlled Logan I know, the one who calculates every move, who keeps his emotions locked behind steel walls. This is something primal, barely leashed. Something that makes my pulse race and power build beneath my skin like static before a storm.
“Ripping him apart?” I should probably be more alarmed by his word choice, but instead, my heart pounds faster. “That seems a bit extreme.”
