“It’s hard to think of something boring when you’retouching me.”The confession slips free, and the flames leap brighter.
Something dark and dangerous flashes across his face, but it’s gone so fast it’s like a glitch in reality. “Jade, I swear to the gods, if you don’t get these flames under control?—“
“You’ll what?” My voice comes out breathless, almost daring him.
His hand tightens on mine, and he leans in slightly. When he speaks again, his voice is carefully controlled.
“Breathe. With me. Now.”
We go through the breathing exercise again. And again. Each time, just when I think I have control, he’ll do something—a look, a touch, the way his voice drops—and I unravel.
But I’m starting to notice a pattern. The way his control slips just before mine does. The way he watches my mouth when he thinks I’m focused. The flex of his fingers against mine, like he’s memorizing the feel of my skin.
By the third time, sweat drips down his temple, his hand trembling slightly around mine. His eyes are feverish, making him look less like the perfect student proctor and more like a man on the edge of breaking.
“Logan, are you?—”
“Orange.” His grip goes slack, then tightens again. “Keep them orange.”
Finally, impossibly, the flames steady into perfect control.
“Good.” He raises the quill, and when he positions it above my palm, he takes a deep breath, like he’s preparing for battle. “This will hurt.”
The moment the glowing ember tip touches my palm, agony sears up my arm, and I bite down hard on my lip, the taste of blood filling my mouth. His eyes track the movement, darkeningfurther, the quill trembling in his grip as more sweat beads on his forehead.
Intensity hums in the breeze starting to swirl around us, dangerous and alive, and then?—
Silver electricity crackles across the forming sigil, racing up my arm in a bright web of light.
Logan’s hand jerks back. The quill clatters to the stone floor.
The sigil completes itself in a burst of electric fire, a flare of silver magic that arcs up between us before sputtering out. And in the silence that follows, Logan just stares at me, haunted, like I’ve become something he can’t control.
“What was that?” He studies the place where the silver electricity raced up my arm, his voice too steady now, too controlled.
“Magic?” I state the obvious, studying the completed flame sigil on my palm that’s throbbing with residual heat. Its delicate, swirling lines glow softly against my skin.
“It wasn’t fire magic.” His eyes snap to mine, sharp and assessing. “Witches are only supposed to have fire magic. So, whatever it was, don’t tell anyone. Never tell anyone.”
“Why would I?—”
“Listen to me.” He steps closer, and there are only inches between us now, intensity rolling off him in waves. “I don’t know what type of magic that was, but our kind doesn’t like different. You’re getting enough attention by being the only witch here who didn’t know about the supernatural world before arriving, and you don’t need any more of it.”
The reminder stings, especially since I’m pretty sure I’ve known this electricity magic waswrongfrom the moment it lit up the sword during the Hydra trial. “No kidding.”
“I’m serious, Jade.” The way he says my name makes my stomach flip. “You can’t let them see… whatever it was you just did.”
“Why are you trying to help me?” The question comes out more vulnerable than I intended. “Why do you even care?”
Pain flickers in his eyes, there and gone so quickly I almost convince myself I imagined it. “As proctor, it’s my responsibility to look out for every student. To be someone they can trust.”
“And are you?” I search his face, the fire’s light dancing across every perfect line of it. “Trustworthy?”
He’s quiet for a long moment, and I notice how truly exhausted he looks. Sweat beads at his temple, his shoulders are tense, and there’s a heaviness in his gaze, a shadow I can’t name.
“Yes. I am. And I need you to trust me, Jade.” His voice drops low as war tears across his face. Want versus control. Desire versus duty. Hunger versus reason. “Please.”
My heart pounds. The intensity in his voice, the way he’s looking at me—like I’m precious and dangerous all at once—makes it hard to breathe.
