Instinct takes over.
I yank the moisture from the air, summoning a swirling torrent of water that crashes into the fire. Steam explodes between us in a blinding, hissing cloud, obscuring my vision. But I’m still catapulting forward, unable to stop the momentum.
I crash into Thane.
We hit the ground hard, the air knocked from my lungs. Before I can fully register what’s happening, we’re rolling—limbs tangling, weight shifting, bodies colliding.
Fighting for control. Fighting for breath. Fighting—each other.
And maybe something else entirely.
He recovers first, flipping us with practiced ease until he’s on top—pinning my wrists to the ground, his body braced over mine. His breath is ragged, chest rising and falling. He’s all tension and heat and barely leashed restraint.
My heart slams against my ribs, but whether it’s from the fight or somethingelse, I can’t tell.
His eyes are so intense, golden flecks blazing within the smoke-gray, I almost melt beneath him.
Almost.
I twist beneath him, bucking hard, trying to throw him off. Hedoesn’t budge.
“You’re predictable,” he mutters, his voice low, edged with something I can’t place. “You rely too much on your magics. Without it, you hesitate.”
“I’m the Spiritborn,” I snap, “ofcourseI use my magics.”
He stares down at me, unmoving. “And what if it’s not enough? Magics burns out. It has limits—finite, based on what’s inside you. What are you left with when it’s gone?”
He leans in just slightly, his voice a rasp against the steam curling between us. “You fight with everything you have. Not just what’s easy.”
I glare up at him, frustration blazing hotter than the fire we just wielded. “Then let me go and we’ll see how much I hesitate.”
For a breath, he doesn’t move. The steam still hangs in the air, thick and quiet. A shroud of tension. A challenge.
Then—he releases me. He rolls off and stands in one fluid motion. Smooth. Controlled. Distant.
I push up, fire simmering through me now—hot and sharp, and not from the fight. I don’t care about last night. Not the kiss with Kieran. Not the rejection. Not the way Thane looked at me—or didn’t.
All I care about now is wiping that godsdamned impassive look off his face. I’m so sick ofunreadable.So sick of pretending it doesn’t get under my skin every time he shuts me out like I don’t matter.
I lunge. No hesitation. No thought. Just rage.
This time, I set the pace. A sharp jab, a feint, a strike aimed at his ribs. He blocks it, but I’m already pivoting, sweeping low to take out his legs.
He stumbles back a step. A flicker of surprise. Then it’s gone—shut down like always.
My fist flies toward his face—he catches it inches from his nose. His eyes lock with mine.
“You’re letting your emotions rule you. Again.” His voice is cool. Detached. Like I’m nothing more than a trainee to him. Like everything we’ve been through—every look, every touch—was just protocol.
I growl and slam into him, my forearm braced against his throat as I drive him back, teeth clenched. Then I drop low and kick out my leg to sweep his. He jumps back, but barely.
And for a second—just one—his mask slips.
Fire erupts between us, but I’m ready.
I rip the ground beneath him, throwing him off balance just long enough to close the gap. My fist connects with his shoulder. He grunts, stepping back. But I don’t let up.
All of it—the rejection, the shame, the way his gaze lingers only to lead to nothing—boils to the surface.
