“Thirty seconds. You’re doing perfectly.”
I want to argue that I’m a disaster who can’t control her own magic, that there’s nothing perfect about falling apart while ancient soul-fire eats me alive, but all that comes out is a whimper.
“I know it hurts.” His thumb strokes my cheek, and the tenderness almost breaks me. “But you’re halfway done. You can do this. Stay with me.”
“I can’t,” I gasp, and I mean it. The pain is too much, too personal, and too accurate in its cruelty.
“Yes, you can.” His forehead presses against my temple. “Because you’re not alone. I’m right here, and I’m not letting go. Ever.”
His words calm me enough that I’m able to keep my hand in the bowl. And just when I think it can’t get worse, just when I think I’ve hit the bottom of this particular hell, the fire finds new places to burn.
The loneliness of being different. The fear that I’ll never belong. The overwhelming anxiety that everyone who gets closeto me will eventually leave, that no one ever cared about me at all, and that when all is said and done, there’ll be no one left in the world I can trust.
Is there anyone right now Icanfully trust?
I don’t know. Honestly, I don’t think so.
And that might be what burns the most.
“Forty seconds,” Logan says, and I realize he’s trembling, too. “You’re nearly there.”
My vision blurs. Black spots dance at the edges. Tears stream down my face. But Logan’s arms remain steady around me, his presence somehow sharing the load. It’s like his soul is wrapping around mine, taking some of the pain into himself so it doesn’t burn me quite so much.
“Fifteen more seconds. We’ve got this.”
We. Not you.We.
The distinction matters more than it should. Because when was the last time someone stood with me like this? When was the last time someone saw me break apart and didn’t walk away?
Never. No one’s ever done something like this for me before, stayed with me when I hit rock bottom and didn’t leave.
It makes me grip his arm tighter, lean back into his chest, and trust that he won’t let me fall.
“Fifty seconds.” His lips are near my ear now, his voice soft. “Ten more. Just ten more seconds with me.”
The last ten seconds stretch like hours as the fire finds the deepest hurt—the fear that I’m fundamentally wrong. That my magic marks me as something that shouldn’t exist. That this secret will slowly eat me alive until there’s nothing left of me. That everyone I ever cared about will turn against me and leave me isolated and alone.
“Five... four... three... two... one.”
The instant Logan finishes counting, I yank my hand from the bowl so fast I nearly elbow him in the stomach.
The absence of pain is so shocking I gasp, my legs giving out as I sag against him.
“You did it.” His hands cup my face, his thumbs wiping away tears that won’t stop.
The soul burn is gone, but I’m raw and exposed, like all my defenses burned away with the fire’s pain. Shame floods through me at the realization that Logan can see straight through to every ugly, broken part of me. The parts I’ve tried and failed to hide from everyone for my entire life.
But even though he was with me through all of it… he’s not leaving. At least, not yet. He’s not giving up on me and telling me to forget the trials, and the training, and taking back his offer to help me keep my secret. He’s not scared of me for the dark thoughts I can’t always control, or disappointed in me for not being the person he thought I was on the surface—the fun, carefree version I try to project to the world.
And most surprisingly? If the way he’s looking at me holds any real weight, he seems to caremorebecause of it.
“That was...” I try to find words, but my brain feels scrambled. “That was fucking awful.”
A surprised laugh escapes him. “That’s one way to put it.”
“Is there another way? Because I’d love to hear the positive spin on soul torture.”
The sarcasm is weak, but it’s there, and that feels like a victory.
