Page 46 of The Witch They Fear

"Sure you did. You were in there doing homework on a Friday night." He tilts his head, grinning down at me with the lazy pleasure of someone who's exactly where he wants to be. "Somebody had to come remind you what you are."

"You want to see what I am?" My voice is shaking and I hate it. The magic is building behind my sternum—pressure climbing, heat spreading, my palms burning against his shirt. "Fine."

"Yeah?" His breath against my ear. "Show me, Hex. Show me what—"

I plant both hands flat on his chest and push.

Everything I've been holding detonates at once—a concussive blast of raw power that erupts from my palms and hits him square in the chest. The force of it lifts him clean off his feet. He flies backward and hits the ground ten feet away, skidding through the wet grass, the impact so hard I hear the air leave his lungs.

Silence.

I'm pressed against the cottage wall, hands outstretched, fingers blazing with sparks that crackle and pop in the dark. My chest is heaving. My magic is roaring—a bright, deafening static behind my sternum, still surging, still pushing, looking for the next threat.

There is no next threat. There's just Kage, lying in the grass with his arms out, staring up at the sky. Flat on his back. Still.

Oh god. Oh god, did I kill him? Did I—

He laughs.

Low, rough, surprised. He pushes up onto his elbows and looks at me across the dark yard and he's grinning. Ear to ear. Blood on his lip from where he bit it on impact. Absolutely delighted.

"There she is," he says again. Quieter this time.

Seductive.

Hungry.

I run.

Through the grass, around the cottage, up the porch steps, through the door. I slam it behind me. Lock it. Press my back against the wood and slide down until I'm sitting on the floor with my knees pulled up and my sparking hands buried in my hair and my breath coming in short, hitching gasps that I can't seem to slow down.

What just happened. What just happened.

My hands are still glowing. Little arcs of light threading through my fingers, illuminating the dark cottage in flickering gold. I stare at them through the curtain of my hair and watch the sparks die one by one, each one dimmer than the last, until my hands are just hands again—shaking, ordinary, but always seconds away from exploding.

From murdering.

I don't know how long I sit there. Long enough for my breathing to slow. Long enough for the roaring in my chest to settle back to its usual hum. Long enough to replay every second of the last five minutes on a loop—his hand on my wrist, his breath on my neck, the sound he made, the heat in my belly, the blast, the laugh, the there she is—and feel sick with every repetition.

He provoked me on purpose. And it didn’t take much.

He pushed until I broke because he wanted to see it. Wanted to see what I'd do when the leash slipped. And I showed him. I showed him exactly what I am—a girl who can't be touched without exploding, who can't be pushed without pushing back hard enough to level a room, who will never, ever be safe to be close to.

Eleven people. A hotel hallway. The sound it made.

My fingers dig into my scalp.

A knock at the door.

"GO AWAY."

"I have your food." Zeva. Flat. Unimpressed. She’s probably questioning every career decision she’s ever made that’s brought her here.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I scrub my hands over my face. Wipe the sweat off my forehead. Stand up. My legs are unsteady. I unlock the door and open it just wide enough to take the plate—some kind of pasta, a bread roll, a side salad that's seen better days.

"Thank you," I mumble.