Page 151 of The Devil May Care

“Now it is where it belongs,” he murmurs, and I don’t think he means the thread.

My throat is dry. “It feels alive.”

He nods, still watching the pendant. “Each realm’s essence responds differently, but when you carry one, the flame can recognize it.”

I look down. The pendant is warm again, but it doesn’t burn. “And it recognized me.”

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t have to. When I lift my eyes to his, everything feels suspended. Like the thread isn’t the only thing humming. I can feel it between us—tension, yes, but also something softer. His gaze lingers a moment too long. His breath catches. Heat diffuses through my body in a sickly-sweet spiral.

My fingers twitch with the need to reach for him when he steps back, and I almost ask him to stay right there. But I don’t. Instead, I chew the inside of my cheek.

“I didn’t think I needed it. I didn’t want to need it. Like a cheat code.”

“I know.”

There’s no judgment in his tone, but something in it lands deeper than I expect. Like he understands that kind of pride a little too well. That should feel like pressure, like too much, that he can recognize even the deepest parts of me I try to keep hidden, but it doesn’t. It feels like steadiness. Like I could shake apart, dissolving into dust, and he’d still be there, holding my frame together.

“Thank you,” I say, and it comes out smaller than I meant.

He nods but doesn’t speak. The silence stretches between us, quiet but not empty. I try to swallow it down, the way my pulse keeps skipping. The way every inch of me is suddenly aware of the space between our bodies. The way he never seems to flinch, never seems to waver. Except he does. Just not when anyone else is looking. The thread hums against my palm. Like it knows something I don’t. Warmth blooms in my cheeks, and lower between my thighs.

There’s a shimmer under Caz’s skin, something deeper than light. A line along his temple that wasn’t there before. Something faint and shadowed near the edge of his collar. Not flaws. Not scars. Marks he is not quite ready to show. My throat tightens. I look down at the pendant against my chest to give myself a moment, but it’s no help, glowing gently. Not from magic, not from heat, but from attention. His, mine, the space between us.

“I can feel it already,” I say. “Like it’s… listening.”

He tilts his head, quiet. “It is.”

The way he says it makes my chest ache. I don’t know if it’s the magic, or the quiet, or how tired I still am from the trial—but my brain won’t shut up. My whole body’s tense and warm, but not from fear.

I want to say something to surprise him, ask him for personal details, step closer. Anything to throw him as off-balance as I currently feel. Instead, I shift my weight and murmur, “You really don’t miss much, do you?”

That almost-smile again. “Not when it comes to you.”

And that—that—hits lower than it should.

I glance at his mouth. Only for a second, but when I turn away, I know he noticed. And I shouldn’t—it’s playing with fire, literally—but I take a deep breath and turn back to meet his gaze head on. Really lookat him, all of him. The glamor’s not stable. His edges are fraying. There’s a faint shimmer near his temple, like heat rising off pavement, and a deeper glow in the space where his collar shifts. A pulse of ember-light I hadn’t noticed before. Caz sees me staring and does not hide it. He doesn’t speak right away, but he doesn’t step back either. Instead, he watches me like he’s still cataloging something. Like I’m a mystery he hasn’t quite solved. The thread in my hand pulses faintly again—like it’s aware of both of us. Of this growingthingbetween us. I’m done ignoring it too.

“You do realize,” he says, voice low and steady, “that none of this was meant for you.”

I lift a brow to hide the swoop in my gut. “You’re just now figuring that out?”

His eyes crinkle slightly at the corners. Not quite a laugh, but close, and the fist around my heart loosens by degrees.

“You were not trained for this. You do not speak our languages. You do not know our laws, or our customs, or our expectations. You do not even know your own lineage.”

“Wow,” I say dryly. “Keep going, I’m almost flattered.”

“Let me finish,” Caz shakes his head, slow, solemn. “And still, you face the Flame and the Rite without fear. You walk into every fire, not knowing the shape of the burn.”

I blink. It’s not a compliment I know how to carry. Not because I don’t want it, but because it feels… too honest. Too large. In direct opposition to the self-doubt marinating in my veins.

I look down at the thread in my hands again.

“I’m scared,” I correct him, “but what is my other option? Give up?” I shake my head. “That’s not really on the table.”

“No,” he agrees. “But most people do not do well with inevitability. Or powerlessness. Or change.”

I shrug one shoulder, keeping my gaze fixed on the green-gold shimmer in my hand. He’s giving me too much credit. It’s not bravery that keeps me going. It’s not strength. It just isn’t solely fear.