Page 11 of We Were Meant to Burn (Ashes and Ruin Saga #1)

Lunch was a miserable affair.

I tore off a chunk of gray tortilla, chewed, and immediately regretted it. The thing had the texture of dried leather and the taste of absolutely nothing. The meat wasn’t much better—tough, over-salted, and jerky-dry. Objectively, it was better than the slop they fed me in the dungeon, but my stomach wasn’t buying it. Every bite made my gut twist in protest, but I forced myself to swallow.

Strength. I needed my strength.

Still, my traitorous brain conjured up better meals, as if mocking me. A steaming bowl of menudo, rich and fragrant, with fresh lime squeezed over it. Chiles rellenos stuffed with melted cheese, crisp on the outside, smothered in tangy tomato sauce. A plate of slow-roasted pork with cumin and red rice. My mouth watered at the thought, and I nearly choked on the miserable excuse for food I was currently consuming.

It was a cruel joke, really.

I reached for another stiff tortilla and noticed Kerun watching me. No. Not me. My boots.

He glared at them like they’d personally offended him.

I paused, chewing slowly, trying to decide if I cared. It wasn’t like I asked for his boots. They were just the closest in size. Still, something about the way he sat, his jaw tight, his shoulders stiff, made something in my chest twist.

Damn it.

I waited until Dom wandered off, then grabbed another tortilla and walked over to where Kerun sat. His eyes snapped to me immediately, sharp and wary. He looked like a street cat, caught between the urge to hiss and the urge to bolt.

I sighed.

"I’m sorry for taking your boots,”

I said, keeping my voice even.

"I’ll make sure you get a new pair once this is all over.”

I didn’t mean once we got to Tiepaz. I had no intention of letting it get that far. But once I made it home, I could send the kid as many boots as he wanted. A whole damn ship full if it meant he’d stop glaring at my feet like they owed him money.

Kerun stopped chewing. His eyes flicked over me—not quick, not lingering, just a measured scan like he was cataloging a threat. Or a weapon. His jaw ticked once before he leaned forward, elbows on knees.

"That thing they say about you and your Bloodguard. True?”

The question came low and blunt, not reverent, not impressed—just curious in a way that felt surgical. Still, the shift caught me off guard. A moment ago, he looked like he was ready to gut me for sport. Now he was . . . interested? I cocked my head.

"The Malditas? Yes.”

He didn’t move much, just gave a slow nod like he was filing it away.

"And the Tsar of Orlov?”

His voice stayed flat, but the question cut sharper than the last.

"You really got to him by bedding his heir?”

I went still. A sharp, ugly memory surfaced, unbidden—the flickering candlelight in a cold stone chamber, the weight of a lover’s trust on my shoulders, the moment I betrayed her for the mission. They’d gotten it wrong, of course. It hadn’t been the prince I was sent to seduce. It had been the princess.

I clenched my jaw.

Kerun’s calm grated under my skin. To him, it was a headline. A body count with a good story behind it. To me, it was something else entirely. A mistake. A scar. The first time I let emotion interfere with the mission.

“You shouldn’t believe rumors,”

I said flatly.

He tilted his head. Just slightly.

"Didn’t say I did.”

Then, after a beat: “So it’s not true.”

I stared up at the canopy.

"It’s not your business.”

That, at least, was the truth.

He didn’t argue. Just ripped his tortilla in half with the same quiet precision he’d asked his questions. His jaw was tight again. Whatever he was thinking, he kept it locked behind his teeth.

“The Tsar ordered mass killings,”

he said after a long pause.

"Non-Bruja. Kids, too.”

I swallowed against the weight of history pressing at my ribs.

"He called it the Culling.”

The words left my mouth before I could stop them, each syllable coated in the cold sting of memory. People rounded up like livestock. Mothers clutching their children, men dragged from their homes, entire bloodlines erased in a single night.

Kerun’s knuckles went white around the torn edges of his food. Whatever bitterness had been brewing in him wasn’t aimed at me—it was aimed at the past. At history. At the kind of power that made monsters out of men.

Mother had called it a waste. A waste of labor, of resources, of potential. That was the only reason she’d sent me to Orlov in the first place—to remove the Tsar and clear the way for her negotiations with the Tsarina. A more . . . pragmatic ruler. Someone she could use.

In the end, Mother got exactly what she wanted. She always did.

“Then he deserved it,”

Kerun said, his voice crackling like firewood snapping in the flames.

I shook my head. I could’ve agreed, but what was the point? One slaughter didn’t erase another. That was the thing about responding to killing with more killing—there was always another name on the list. Always another body in the dirt. I knew that better than anyone.

Before I could say as much, a warmth pulsed against my chest. My marca flashing like an uninvited warning. Dom.

I tensed a fraction of a second before his shadow loomed over us.

“What do you want?”

he growled, brushing past me like I was a bad smell he was trying to escape. He dropped onto the ground next to Kerun, all brute force and simmering resentment.

“Nothing.”

I shrugged, forcing my voice into something light.

"Just talking to Kerun.”

“Don’t.”

The single word hit like a slap.

I lifted a brow, but Dom wasn’t looking at me. His focus was on the kid, his expression hard and unyielding.

"He’s young. He doesn’t need you corrupting him.”

The restraint it took not to snarl back at him made my jaw ache. I curled my fingers into my palms, nails biting into my skin. If I had a blade in my hand, I might’ve used it. Instead, I turned away, letting the tension burn in my chest rather than spill from my mouth.

Behind me, Dom muttered, “What did I tell you?”

Kerun scoffed.

"Just because you’re scared of her doesn’t mean I am.”

I let out a sharp breath through my nose. Scared? I could practically feel Dom bristle at that.

“I’m not scared of her,”

Dom snapped.

"I don’t trust her. And neither should you.”

Kerun ignored him, his dark eyes glinting with something else—curiosity.

"Do you think she knows serpientinza?”

That got my attention.

The corners of my mouth twitched, just barely. Serpientinza. The art of fighting like a viper—swift, unpredictable, deadly. A blade that struck before the enemy even knew it was moving. It was ancient. Nearly lost to time. Only a handful of warriors ever mastered it. And I was one of them.

I glanced back over my shoulder. Dom rolled his eyes. Kerun watched me with open anticipation, waiting.

I didn’t answer.

I just smiled.

Later that night, Malakai called for the group to stop, and we set up camp in a clearing large enough to accommodate all six of us. The grass had been pressed flat, bent like it had been trampled underfoot by something big. Maybe a herd, maybe something worse. No tracks, though—the rain had smeared any signs of what had passed. Probably for the best. Some things were better not knowing.

Elías started a fire in the center of camp, and I leaned in, letting the heat lick at my chilled skin. The jungle was suffocating during the day, but the nights turned sharp, the kind of cold that settled in your bones.

Across from me, Malakai cleared his throat and, after cutting a few hunks of cheese with a paring knife, held some out to me. I blinked at him, suspicious. The gesture was too . . . ordinary. I took the cheese anyway and nibbled at the edge, half-watching the fire, half-watching him. My fingers traced the dried twigs in my lap, feeding small pieces into the flames.

“You need to pack on some weight,”

Malakai said, voice flat, like he was remarking on the weather. He didn’t say it to be cruel, but it still landed like a punch to the ribs. Another reminder of how far I’d fallen. Another reminder that I was weak.

He cut himself a few chunks of cheese and set the knife down beside him.

My fingers twitched.

It would be easy. One quick movement, and I’d have it.

“Sorry for slowing everyone down,”

I muttered, chewing the rubbery cheese and keeping my eyes trained on the blade. Just sitting there. Like it wanted me to take it.

Malakai shrugged.

"We’re making good time. Don’t worry about it.”

“According to Dom, we’re not,”

I said, more to myself than anything.

“Pshaw.”

Malakai waved a dismissive hand.

"Don’t listen to him. He’s a sour apple.”

He held out a bag of nuts to me, and I declined the offer, my mouth still full of cheese.

Across the clearing, Lian was rummaging through his pack, his face half-buried inside.

"Has anyone seen my whittling knife?”

he called.

I stiffened.

Damn it.

I kept chewing, forcing myself to look unbothered, though the blade in my boot seemed to burn against my skin, a guilty weight pressing into my ankle. I crossed my legs casually, praying no one would notice the way my shoulders tensed.

Lian stood up, fixing Kerun with a pointed look.

"Give it back, Kerun. I know you have it.”

Kerun, the little feral thing, narrowed his eyes.

"I didn’t take it.”

Dom nudged him.

"Come on, just give it back.”

“What makes you think I have it?”

Kerun snapped, hunching his shoulders like a cat backed into a corner.

“You’re the only one with sticky fingers around here,”

Lian said, hands on his hips like a disappointed governess.

"And I know you’re just trying to get back at me for the whole thing with your boots.”

Kerun bared his teeth at the reminder, tongue flicking out in a childish sneer. “No.”

Lian quirked his head.

"Is that ‘no’ as in you’re not mad at me? Or ‘no’ as in you won’t give my knife back?”

Kerun’s expression turned even more mulish, his entire body hunching in on itself. “No.”

Lian huffed, throwing his hands up.

"You’re such a baby sometimes,”

he grumbled before going back to digging through his pack.

The sliver of guilt that had been festering in my gut twisted like a blade.

Kerun was taking the blame for something I did. And he wasn’t even fighting it—just rolling with it, like this was an accusation he was used to. Like it was easier to let them believe he was guilty than to argue otherwise.

For a moment, I thought about coming clean.

Then I thought about what would happen if I did.

I kept my mouth shut.

I scratched at the raw skin around my neck without thinking, fingers worrying at the sores that still hadn’t fully healed. The moment they brushed the cool metal of the collar, I yanked my hand away, like the damn thing could still burn me.

“Does it hurt?”

Malakai asked, voice low—softer than I expected, like he actually cared about the answer.

I shrugged, hating how raw the question made me feel.

"Not really,” I lied.

It wasn’t just pain. It was shame, forged in metal and locked around my throat.

“It’s just a painful reminder,”

I added, toeing a rock with my boot and watching it skitter across the dirt.

"But I’m used to pain. I can handle it.”

Malakai grunted through a mouthful of food.

"Let me try removing it again. First time was probably a fluke.”

I frowned.

"Why would you do that?”

He dusted crumbs off his pants like we were discussing the weather. Like he wasn’t casually offering to unchain the monster everyone feared I might be.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

I stared at him.

"Because—I’m—well, me.”

His silver brows rose, just a fraction.

"Are you telling me I shouldn’t trust you? That you’ll fry my entire crew the second that thing comes off?”

He leaned back on one elbow, eyes too sharp, too steady. Watching me like I was some creature in a cage, and he was the only one who could see all the cracks in the glass.

“Because if that’s the case,”

he said, voice calm as ever, “you should know—you wouldn’t last a week in Endrina alone. You don’t know where you are. And even if you stole my compass and map, you’d end up walking in circles until someone less charming than me put a blade through your ribs. Or dragged you back to Aguatitlan.”

Every word was true.

And I hated him for it.

“I don’t need you,”

I muttered.

The way the words came out—petulant, small—made me want to kick myself.

Malakai grinned, all sharp teeth and maddening confidence.

"No? Then why do you keep looking at me like that?”

Heat flared across my cheeks. I turned away, fast, like distance might save me from the weight of his gaze.

Malakai sighed, raking a hand through his silver hair, the strands falling back into place in soft waves. “Look,”

he said, tone shifting, dipping into something that almost sounded . . . sincere.

"I don’t hold your mother’s crimes against you. No point punishing you for things you didn’t choose.”

I let out a bitter laugh.

"Yeah? What about my crimes?”

For the first time, something flickered behind his eyes. An emotion I couldn’t name. Didn’t want to.

“We can’t help who our parents are,”

he said quietly.

"Or what they make us do.”

I didn’t say anything.

Because the worst part was—I wasn’t sure if he was talking about me.

Or himself.

He didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t ask. Instead, he knelt in front of me, his fingers brushing the collar at my throat. The metal was cold against my skin, but his touch was warm. A heat I didn’t expect surged through me, crawling up the back of my neck and settling across the tops of my cheeks.

I would rather die than admit his nearness made me blush. I wasn’t blushing. Definitely not.

Malakai called on his magic, and the air shifted, thick with power. Silver beads of metal rose from the dirt at his knees, trembling in response. Even the knife he’d left on the ground twitched, like it was caught between two forces fighting for control.

Then—pain.

A burning sensation flared from my marca, and something inside me recoiled violently. The magic suppressor sparked with a crackling jolt, sending a wave of electricity through my skin.

Malakai cursed, lurching back with a yelp, shaking his hands like he’d grabbed a live wire.

"That thing does not like me,”

he gritted out, rubbing his palms together.

"Sorry, I don’t know what the Aguatitlan techies did to it. I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

Neither had I. And that scared me more than I cared to admit.

The collar was the last reminder of my time in the dungeon, a symbol of how close I had come to breaking. I should have wanted it off. But the relief in my chest was undeniable. Maybe I wasn’t ready. Maybe—goddess help me—I didn’t trust myself.

“Thank you,”

I said, masking the disappointment I didn’t quite understand.

Needing to shift the attention off myself, I reached for the nuts Malakai had offered, but the moment I realized how close we were, I hesitated. He must have noticed, too, because he made an awkward attempt to pass them off without touching me. Which only resulted in the nuts slipping from his fingers, scattering across the ground like tiny, treacherous escapees.

Without thinking, I dove for them at the same time he did, and like the fools we were, our heads collided with a sharp crack.

I reeled back, wincing as a sharp sting bloomed across my forehead. “Damn it,”

I muttered, rubbing at the spot.

Malakai groaned, touching his temple.

"Ow. Not your best idea, love.”

Heat curled up my neck at the nickname.

"You dropped them,”

I shot back, ignoring the warmth spreading along my skin.

His lips quirked, but instead of responding, he pulled a palm-sized bag from his pack and shoved it into my hands.

"Here. Just take them before we end up with matching bruises.”

I snatched the bag without meeting his eyes and turned away, hyperaware of the way his gaze lingered on me. It was like he felt the tension too, like we were both pretending not to notice it.

I needed distance.

Quickly, I busied myself with setting up my tent, watching the others from the corner of my eye. Dom was helping Kerun with his, which meant I had a perfect opportunity to study them. If I wanted to escape, I had to learn how to set up camp myself.

I grabbed the expanding and collapsing bars from the pile at my feet. Easy enough. I shoved two pieces together, then added the third—only for the whole damn thing to snap apart like a cruel joke.

I bit the inside of my cheek and tried again.

Nothing.

The rods refused to cooperate, the fabric tangled, and the entire mess slumped over like a lifeless corpse. I stared at it in silent, mounting frustration, then let out a long breath through my nose.

Of course. Of course, a damn tent would be my downfall.

A shadow fell over me.

I didn’t bother looking up—I was two seconds away from snapping—until I caught the scent of spice and moss, and realized exactly who it was.

Malakai.

He didn’t say a word. Just knelt beside me and plucked one of the rods from my hand, holding it steady, like this was all very routine.

“So, there is something you can’t do after all,”

he murmured, the amusement in his voice making my jaw clench.

“Don’t start,”

I muttered, refusing to look at him. I was already too aware of how close he was—how his thigh brushed mine, how his heat pressed against my side like temptation.

“I never had to set up my own tent before,”

I added tightly.

"I had servants for that sort of thing.”

Malakai hummed low in his throat, like that amused him more than it should’ve.

"You can slit a man’s throat in under five seconds, but you can’t handle some canvas and a few poles?”

He shook his head, mock-disappointed.

"Tell me, Nightshade, what exactly can you do for yourself?”

I turned my glare on him then—sharp enough to cut steel—but it only made his grin deepen, smug and infuriating.

“If you want to keep your pretty face intact,”

I said sweetly, “I’d suggest you stop talking.”

His brows lifted, like he was actually considering it.

"Can’t help it. You’re so cute when you’re struggling.”

The rod snapped into place with a satisfying click, and I grabbed the next one just to have something to do with my hands.

Because if I didn’t, I might strangle him.

He leaned in just enough to stir the air between us, his voice dropping low.

"Or maybe I’ve got it all wrong. Maybe you’re so hellbent on figuring this out yourself because you think you’ll need the skill . . . when you run.”

I stilled.

The fabric slipped from my hands.

Had I been that obvious?

Damn him.

I forced a neutral expression, smoothed my features into the calm mask I’d worn since I was old enough to be considered dangerous.

“Mother deemed many skills beneath me,”

I said coolly.

"If it didn’t involve killing, she didn’t see the point. Everything else? I taught myself.”

Malakai watched me, violet eyes too sharp, too knowing. Like he was trying to peel back layers I couldn’t afford to let him see. He didn’t speak right away. Just studied me. Measured.

I jammed the next rod into place with a little more force than necessary. Malakai made a low whistle under his breath.

“Violent. I like it.”

I shot him a look.

"You would.”

He smirked but didn’t rise to the bait this time. Instead, he grabbed a corner of the tent fabric and helped guide it into place, the movement quiet and efficient. For a moment, we worked in sync—hands brushing, breaths syncing, and it was . . . maddening.

His presence pressed in around the edges of my awareness like smoke. Warm. Tangled. Impossible to ignore.

“You always this bad at asking for help?”

he murmured eventually, voice pitched low, like he didn’t want the others to hear.

“I didn’t ask for help.”

Asking for help meant admitting I needed it in the first place. That I wasn’t untouchable. That I wasn’t enough, not without someone holding the other end of the rope.

“That explains the tantrum you were throwing earlier.”

“I wasn’t throwing a tantrum,”

I snapped.

Malakai made a soft, amused sound, not quite a laugh.

"No? Then what would you call that little sigh of despair? Very dramatic, by the way. A little princessy.”

“Keep talking and I’ll show you dramatic,”

I muttered, elbowing him—gently, unfortunately. I blamed the heat blooming in my cheeks for the lack of force.

He laughed, full and low, and the sound of it made my stomach tighten in a way I refused to acknowledge.

“Better,” he said.

I frowned. “Better?”

His violet eyes cut to mine, sharp and suddenly serious.

"You look more like yourself when you’re pissed. More alive.”

The words caught me off guard—too honest, too piercing. I turned back to the tent before he could see the way they hit.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,”

I muttered, fumbling with the final tie.

“Yeah, I do,”

he said softly.

"Sometimes it’s like you forget.”

That silenced me.

For a few heartbeats, we stayed there, the only sound the rustle of fabric and the whisper of wind through the trees.

Las Madres, I hated how off-balance he made me. How easily I forgot the plan when his voice dipped like that, when his gaze landed on me like I was something worth looking at.

Then, just as the quiet threatened to become something else entirely, Malakai leaned in—just enough to make my breath hitch.

“Tent’s up, doll,”

he said, voice brushing my ear like silk.

"Unless you need help fluffing your pillow, too.”

I turned to glare at him, but he was already walking away, silver hair catching the firelight, smirk firmly in place.

Las Madres help me, I hated that man.

I flicked my gaze toward the knife Malakai had carelessly left behind, my fingers twitching before my brain could fully catch up.

Opportunity.

With a swift, practiced motion, I snatched it up and tucked it down my blouse, pressing the cool steel against my skin. The blade settled against my chest bone, held firm by the band of my brassiere.

Just in case.

No harm in carrying an extra weapon, especially when I was surrounded by men who either didn’t trust me or actively wanted me dead.

I adjusted my posture, forcing my shoulders to relax. The last thing I needed was Malakai—or anyone else—noticing the slight shift in weight or the subtle way I carried myself now.

I was getting out of here. Eventually. And if anyone tried to stop me?

Well.

They’d find out exactly why people feared the Nightshade of Rojas.