AYLA'S POV
The smell of scorched stone clung to me long after the fire had died. I could still see the blackened cracks in the training ground, still feel the echo of heat in my palms, and the weight of Kael's hands gripping my wrists like iron.
He should have let go. He should have moved. Any sane person would have.
But Kael wasn't sane. He had stood there and taken it—all of it—just to force me to look at him, to breathe.
The burns on his chest haunted me. They'd already begun to heal, his cursed resilience knitting skin back together, but the sight of them—the smell of charred flesh, the sound of his breath hissing with pain—it all lodged in my throat like glass.
He says he's not leaving. He says he'll fight it with me. But what if the next time, I don't just burn him? What if I end him?
