Page 61 of The Devil May Care

“Again,” he says.

So I do it again and this time I don’t trip. I do crash to the floor like a bag of wet laundry the second he says we can pause.

“Graceful,” I mutter, wiping sweat from my forehead with the back of my wrist. “Ten out of ten.”

Caziel doesn’t sit. Of course he doesn’t. He moves to the edge of the ring and stands with his back to me, like he’s guarding the perimeter or judging the alignment of the walls. Or avoiding looking at me. I reach for the water jug left on a low stone table and take a long drink. It’s cooler than I expect, crisp and faintly herbal. I half-expect it to burst into flame halfway down.

When it doesn’t, I let out a breath and tip my head back against the wall behind me. My muscles are already starting to stiffen up. My shirt clings. Everything aches, but not in a way that makes me want to curl up and disappear.

I glance over at him. He’s finally turned back around, arms crossed again. Classic.

“So,” I say. “How bad is it? On a scale of one to flaming humiliation.”

Caziel’s expression doesn’t change, but he does—after a lengthy pause—sit. It’s not casual. It’s almost ceremonial, the way he folds himself into the idea of rest, not actually taking it. He stretches his legs in front of him, spine straight, eyes on me.

“You’re not graceful,” he says.

“Thanks.”

“But you learn quickly.”

I blink. “That’s… almost a compliment.”

“It’s an observation.”

I raise an eyebrow. “I’ll take it anyway.”

We fall into silence again. Not tense. Not awkward. Just… space. Quiet.

I rub the back of my neck and exhale through my teeth. “Guess I’m more alley cat than apex predator.”

Caziel tilts his head. “What is an alley cat?”

I blink. Then laugh. “Right. It’s an animal. A cat. Scrappy. Small. Survives by being unpredictable. Looks like it might bite you.”

“I see.” Another pause. Then, very seriously: “You do seem like you might bite someone.”

I snort and nearly choke on my water. I totally would.

“Glad we’re setting expectations.”

He leans back against the wall. The gesture looks almost human.

“The flame doesn’t favor beauty. It favors will.” He says, refusing to look in my direction. I face him, surprised and wait until he meets my gaze evenly. “That’s what it responds to,” he adds. “Want. Intention. Refusal to break.”

I stare at him, trying to decide if that was meant to comfort me or just inform. Maybe both. I let that settle for a beat. Then I glance sideways at him, panting, smirking through sweat.

“Noted,” I say. “Though you could at least attempt to spare my ego a little.”

He frowns. Not confused—concerned. And it throws me completely.

“Why do you make jokes like that?” he asks, voice low. “You know they aren’t true.”

I blink. The grin dies on my face.

Oh.

I stare at him because he’s not teasing. He’s not playing. And my brain short-circuits a little.