I don’t mean to. It just happens—the fear and the exhaustion and the relief all crashing together, leaking out in shaky breaths against his shirt. His arms tighten. He doesn’t say anything. Just holds me while I fall apart.
“I’m sorry,” I manage, pulling back. I swipe at my cheeks with my hand, tears smearing across my skin. “I don’t know why I’m—”
“Don’t apologize.”
My hand finds his forearm without thinking. Right where the burns are worst. I just want to touch him, to make sure he’s real, to—
He inhales sharply.
I yank my hand back. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt—”
But he’s not looking at me. He’s looking at his arm.
I follow his gaze.
The skin is still red. Still damaged. But less somehow. The angry shine has dulled. The edges look softer, like a burn that’s been healing for days instead of hours.
Neither of us speaks.
Vaelor flexes his hand slowly. Opens and closes his fingers. His brow furrows.
“That’s…” He doesn’t finish.
I stare at my palm. It looks the same as always. But there’s warmth fading from it—warmth that doesn’t feel like mine.
“I don’t—” I start.
“Not tonight.” His voice is quiet. Steady. “We don’t have to figure it out tonight.”
I nod because I don’t know what else to do.
He takes my hand—the same hand that just did something neither of us can explain—and leads me toward the stairs.
His room is warm and dark and smells like him. He gives me a shirt to sleep in, turns around while I change. When we climb into bed there’s nothing but exhaustion and comfort and the solid weight of his arm across my waist.
I close my eyes.
I dream of fire. It doesn’t burn.
Chapter 37
Nova
The living room has become my classroom.
I’m on the floor with my back against the couch, textbooks spread around me like a fortress. Territorial law. House history. Mark theory—which is ironic, given that I still don’t have one. The words blur together after the first hour, but I keep going because stopping means thinking, and thinking means remembering that someone tried to burn me alive three days ago.
Trey’s on the couch behind me, close enough that his knee brushes my shoulder when he shifts. Rane’s in the armchair pretending to read something on his phone. Beckett’s by the window with an actual book, though I haven’t seen him turn a page in twenty minutes.
The front door opens.
Kyron comes in looking like he’s been chewing on something bitter. He drops onto the couch beside Trey, lets out a long breath, and stares at the ceiling.
“That bad?” Rane asks.
“I filed the report on Monday. Apparently administration had additional questions.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “Took two hours.”
“What kind of questions?” I close my textbook.
