Page 157 of The Devil May Care

He leaves me standing in the half-light of the corridor, shadows coiling at my feet, and for a long moment I do not move.

The stone wall across from me bears the flame’s old mark—a sigil for truth, etched in the age before glamor and lies. I trace it with one finger. The wall is warm. Watching. If she survives the next trial, I will give her another thread. Not because I believe she can win. Not yet. She could face every trial, and Crimson still would turn their backs. But because I need to believe in something again and maybe she is what’s left

I walk to my rooms in a blur. The doors to my chamber seals behind me with a whisper and a click. I do not light the Flame, but it burns anyway. Not in the hearth, but along my collarbone. The embermark pulses faintly beneath my skin like a second heartbeat, reacting to emotion I have tried—and failed—to discipline. The mark knows what I am thinking before I do.

Kay.

The soft, stunned look on her face when I pulled away. The way her breath caught as she leaned in, like it cost her something. Like itmeantsomething and it did.

To her.

To me.

And still, I did not let it happen.

I press my hands to the edge of the table, jaw tight, trying to find rational ground beneath all the sparks. She does not understand what the threads can do. How they react to need and intention. Viridian is not gentle. It tugs at longing, wraps itself in fantasy. It does not fabricate want, but it amplifies it. Warps it. The longer she holds it, the more that need might start to feel like truth.

And she already thinks I am someone I am not.

The glamor has not slipped, not fully, not yet, but I saw her watching me. Her eyes following my mouth, her gaze lingering on the edges of my face, the shifting outline where illusion blurs into something true. But she does not ask. And I do not explain.

Coward.

I was waiting for the right moment. Some quiet hour where we could sit with it, where she would not flinch or be frightened. Where I could show her all of me—the horns, the ember-burned skin, the flame that never fully goes out. Instead, I almost kissed her with my falsefeatures and the heat of Viridian between us. She deserved better than that. She deserves more than all of this.

I press my fingers to my temple. The embermark flashes, bitter and bright.

It would have been easy. Just once. One breath of space closed. Her mouth was already there, already tilted toward mine like she had chosen it. Chosenme. And I… wanted it. Gods, I wanted her.

But I have known want before. It can be cruel. Desperate. Weaponized. She does not know what she is asking for. And if she does—if that hunger was real, not magic or fear or loneliness—I am not ready to face what it means. Because when all of this is over, I will have to let her go.

I know what is coming. The Embermaw is still ahead. The Gilded Trial. Umbral. The final Rite. Five more. She is stronger than I expected, yes, but not invincible. Not Daemari. Not flame-bound. And if she does make it through—gods if she wins—what then?

She will leave. Return to a world that does not have fire in its veins or threads stitched between the stars. A place where her name is just a name, and not something the Flame itself remembers. I would give up the Flame itself to get her home, if that is what she wanted, and right now, the only thing I can think, is that if the Flame continues to recognize her, reach for her, know her, then she can safely make it back through the wastes and back to her own life.

I sink into the chair at my writing table, running a hand through my hair.

It has been too long since someone surprised me.

Kay confounds me at every turn. She fails and laughs. Bleeds and rises. Does not hide her fear, but does not bow to it, either. The flame likes her. I am not sure it has ever liked anyone. Not like this. I am supposed to be guiding her. Preparing her for what is ahead. Instead, I find myself circling her orbit, waiting for a moment that does not belong to me. She has pulled my compass loose.

And still, I did not kiss her. I tell myself it was restraint. Morality. Mercy. But really it was fear. I am not afraid of her touch. I am afraid of what I will become if I let it in. If I let myself believe there could be a future and then lose it. Again. I survived losing Isaeth. Barely. I am notsure I would survive Kay. Not when she looks at me like I am more than Flame and legacy and curse. Like I am just… Caziel.

The Embermark flares. No heat. Just ache.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur aloud, to no one. To her. She will never hear it. Not unless I find the courage to say it to her face. And if I ever do, they will be the truest words I have ever said.

CHAPTER FORTY

KAY

Iwake to silence.

No training bell. No footsteps in the corridor. No sharp bark of orders or clatter of weapons. Just the unnatural stillness that means something’s already shifted and once again I’m sure I’m the last to know. My stomach sinks. This is how it begins now. No warning. No build-up. Just that awful quiet, like the world is holding its breath. The kind of quiet that Caziel used to break—pacing at the edge of my awareness, correcting my grip, asking too many questions with too few words.

But he hasn’t come.

Not since I leaned in.Goddamn idiot.