Page 23 of We Were Meant to Burn (Ashes and Ruin Saga #1)

Icoughed my way back to life.

Water spewed from my mouth in violent heaves, spilling down my chin, over my cheeks, choking me all over again. I gasped, fighting for air, for something solid to hold onto, but everything was spinning, slipping through my fingers like sand. My vision blurred at the edges, flickering in and out of darkness.

I thought I was dead.

That I had drowned.

The river had taken me. The goddesses had finally decided I wasn’t worth the trouble of keeping.

But then—hands.

Warm, steady hands.

Malakai’s hands.

“Easy there,”

he murmured, his voice low, gentle in a way that made my chest tighten.

The world lurched as he rolled me onto my side, his grip firm but careful. I barely had time to register the movement before another wave of water forced its way out of me, wracking my entire body in violent convulsions.

I sucked in a lungful of air, desperate for it. The first breath burned, sharp and cold in my lungs, but the second was easier, and the third came smoother still. The roaring in my head dulled, fading beneath the steady thump-thump-thump of my heartbeat.

I was alive. Barely.

Something stung—a sharp, gnawing pain blooming across my back like a fire just starting to catch. I winced, pushing myself onto my elbows. Everything ached. My arms, my ribs, my lungs, my skull. My body felt bruised from the inside out.

“My back,”

I rasped, my voice barely more than a breath. I reached around, my fingers brushing against torn fabric, against skin that felt too raw. The moment I touched it, pain lanced up my spine, and I sucked in a sharp breath through my teeth.

When I pulled my hand away, my fingertips were wet.

Not with water.

With blood.

Malakai’s frown deepened as his eyes dropped to my outstretched hand. His gaze flicked back to me, concern tightening his features.

"Let me see.”

I nodded, too exhausted to argue.

He moved slowly, carefully, his hands skimming the hem of my shirt before pushing it up the length of my spine. The air felt cold against my exposed skin, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from the gashes along my back. Malakai went still.

He hissed through his teeth.

“The nahual got you good,”

he muttered, his voice edged with something dangerous—something I couldn’t quite name. Anger? Frustration? Or was it something else entirely? “We need to get you to Elías.”

“Just give me a second,”

I whispered, my pulse sluggish, my body heavy. The world around me blurred, smudging like ink left out in the rain. My limbs felt wrong, distant, as if they weren’t mine at all.

Malakai’s hand tightened on my shoulder.

"Oh, no you don’t,”

he said, his tone sharpening.

"You’re no good to me dead. The Hada won’t pay for a corpse.”

I almost laughed. Almost.

But keeping my lungs moving, in and out, in and out, was already too much effort. My body was folding in on itself, surrendering to the creeping black at the edges of my vision.

I didn’t fight it.

I let it take me.

I had no idea how much time had passed before I came back to myself.

The first thing I noticed was the smell—wet stone and something earthy, rich with the scent of moss and damp clay. The air was cool, crisp, untouched by the thick humidity of the jungle. The second thing I noticed was the pain—a dull, pulsing ache deep in my muscles, in my ribs, in the shredded skin of my back.

And then—the sound.

Soft. Low. A voice, speaking in a language I didn’t know. The words curled and stretched, rolling like water over stone, weaving into the air like a spell. I couldn’t make sense of them, but they soothed something in me. A hum followed, deep and steady, vibrating through the space around me.

I pried my eyes open.

The dim glow of a fire flickered across stone walls. I was in a cave, the ceiling arched high above. I was laid on my stomach, stretched across soft moss.

The warmth of a blanket was draped over my shoulders, shielding me from the cool bite of the underground air.

I turned my head—slowly, my neck stiff—searching for the source of the voice.

Malakai sat at the mouth of the cave, his back to me.

His silver hair was still damp, strands clinging to the nape of his neck, catching the firelight in a way that made them shimmer. He was leaning forward, his elbows braced on his knees, speaking in that strange language, his voice barely above a whisper.

The sound of it curled through my bones, seeped into my skin.

I didn’t know what he was saying. I wasn’t even sure if he was talking to someone, or if he was simply talking to himself.

A prayer? A spell?

I wasn’t sure why, but the thought of Malakai praying bothered me. Maybe because it made him seem human, when I needed him to be anything but. He was meant to be untouchable, unreadable. Cold and sharp and effortless in everything he did.

But there was something soft in the way he spoke now.

Something I wasn’t supposed to hear.

I shifted, wincing as pain bit into my back.

The movement caught Malakai’s attention.

He turned.

The moment his eyes met mine, his expression shifted. The distant, unreadable look vanished, replaced by something sharper—relief, maybe, or something close to it. His gaze swept over me, assessing, lingering too long in places that made my pulse stutter.

“You’re awake,”

he said, voice quiet.

I swallowed. My throat burned.

"Apparently.”

A smirk twitched at the corner of his lips.

"You almost died.”

“Thanks,”

I muttered, dragging myself up onto my elbows.

"I hadn’t noticed.”

He didn’t laugh. Didn’t tease. Just watched me, his expression unreadable again.

Then, softer, “You scared me.”

I froze.

It was a trick of the firelight, maybe, but his violet eyes looked brighter than usual. Too bright. I suddenly felt too seen, as if he were peeling away every layer of armor I had left, piece by piece, without even trying.

I looked away first.

“Don’t be stupid,”

I said, forcing a smirk.

"I’m not that easy to kill.”

Malakai exhaled, slow and measured, before shaking his head.

"You should rest.”

I should. I knew I should.

But instead, I kept my eyes on the fire, watching the flames flicker, watching the shadows stretch and twist along the stone walls.

I was suddenly, terrifyingly aware of him. Of his warmth, close but not quite touching. Of the way he smelled—clean, somehow, despite everything. Like wet stone and something sharp, something dangerous.

I needed to keep my distance.

I needed to remember what he was. What I was.

So, I forced myself to settle back down and let my body sink into the bed of moss.

“Wake me when it’s my watch,”

I muttered.

Malakai chuckled, shaking his head.

"You’re not standing watch.”

I started to argue, but my body was already betraying me, my eyes already growing heavy.

The last thing I heard before sleep took me was his voice—low and quiet, laced with something that made my chest ache.

“Sleep, mu?eca.”

I hadn’t meant to pass out.

One moment, I was sinking into exhaustion, trying to ignore the searing pain in my back, and the next, I was waking to the low crackle of a fire licking at damp wood, its embers pulsing in the dim cave.

I lay on my stomach, close enough to the heat to feel its warmth seep into my skin, but not enough to chase away the ache lodged deep in my bones. My limbs were sluggish, my head foggy, as if I’d slept too long but not long enough at all.

Then, a shadow moved across the mouth of the cave.

I blinked against the dimness, my vision adjusting just as Malakai swept inside.

He was drenched from head to foot, water pouring from his silver hair in rivulets, his clothes plastered to his body, outlining every lean muscle, every sharp angle. His skin—tan and taut over his frame—gleamed under the flickering firelight, droplets catching along his collarbone, dripping from the ends of his lashes.

Outside, lightning tore through the sky, flashing for the briefest moment, turning the world an eerie shade of blue. Thunder cracked a breath later, rolling through the jungle, rattling the stone walls of the cave.

“She wakes,”

Malakai mused, his voice carrying over the storm. A wild pig was slung over his shoulder, its mud-matted pelt streaked with rain and blood. He dropped it beside the fire with a heavy thud, then ran a hand through his soaked hair, wringing out the excess water.

“There’s a hurricane brewing,”

he added, shaking out his arms as more droplets flicked from his fingertips.

"We’ll have to hole up here for a while—until it passes.”

I started to roll onto my side, but pain seared across my back, cutting through the dull ache like a hot knife. I gasped, my breath catching as fresh blood trickled from my wounds.

Malakai was beside me in an instant.

“Hold on,”

he said, kneeling at my side.

"The nahual tore you up pretty bad. I need to treat your wounds.”

I gave him a small nod, resting my cheek back against the cool stone floor. There was no use in arguing. I wasn’t in any condition to do this myself.

He rummaged through his pack, pulling out a palm-sized tin bowl and a handful of dark green leaves, their edges slightly curled. From his belt, he produced a round stone, rolling it between his fingers before he began to crush the leaves into a fine powder.

I watched in silence as he worked, his movements practiced, effortless.

“What is that?”

I asked, my voice hoarse.

Malakai didn’t glance up.

"Elías says the oregano in Aguatitlan works as an antibacterial,”

he explained, scooping the crushed leaves into the bowl.

"Found it while I was out getting the pig.”

He strode toward the cave’s entrance, holding the bowl beneath the rain until it filled with water. The scent of fresh herbs mixed with the earthy dampness of the storm. When he returned, he knelt beside me once more, his violet eyes flicking to mine.

“May I?”

he asked, voice softer now.

I hesitated. There was no reason to. He’d already seen me broken and bleeding, had already carried me through the jungle when my body gave out. But there was something about this moment, about the way he was asking, that sent a flicker of unease through me.

I nodded anyway.

Slowly, Malakai lifted my shirt, careful where the fabric had dried stiff with blood, where it clung to the torn skin along my back. His fingers were warm as they brushed against me, his touch feather-light, deliberate.

I braced myself as he spread the poultice over my wounds.

Pain flared sharp at first, a biting sting that made me suck in a breath. Then, warmth spread through me, tingling, numbing. I exhaled, relieved.

Malakai wiped his hands against his trousers.

"We should let it dry before wrapping it up.”

I hummed, shifting my arms beneath my chin.

"Can I at least sit up?”

“Not unless you want gooey oregano paste dripping into your pants.”

I huffed out a quiet laugh.

"Fair enough.”

Malakai turned his attention to the pig, unsheathing his knife and setting to work skinning it. The blade glinted in the firelight, catching the silver flecks in his eyes as he worked.

“How long do you think we’ll be stuck here?” I asked.

He shrugged, not looking up.

"Could be hours. Could be days. Never can tell in Endrina.”

I groaned, pressing my forehead against my folded arms. “Lovely.”

A low chuckle rumbled from him.

"What, you don’t enjoy my company?”

I peeked at him from the corner of my eye.

"You’re the last person I want to be stuck with.”

His smirk deepened.

"That’s not what you said last night when I dragged your half-drowned body out of the river.”

Heat burned my cheeks.

"I was dying.”

“You were dramatic.”

I shot him a glare, but he just grinned, going back to his work.

I didn’t know how Malakai had found this shelter, or how he had managed to carry me into it.

He’d said the cave was tucked into the crags, its ledges too narrow for the nahual to scale. A perfect hiding place. Safe. Secure.

Trapped.

The thought gnawed at me. Not just the idea of waiting out the storm, but being here—with him. With Malakai, who unsettled me in ways I wasn’t ready to face. Who looked at me like he was piecing together a puzzle only he could solve.

I didn’t want to notice things about him. How his silver hair darkened when wet, strands sticking to his forehead. How his tan skin still bore traces of rain, droplets catching in the hollows of his collarbone. How the firelight turned his violet eyes into something softer, warmer, as he studied me like he was trying to decipher a secret I hadn’t even told myself.

I didn’t want to feel the pull that had been growing between us, something beyond simple attraction, beyond the physical. I’d felt that before—desire, fleeting and inconsequential. But this? This was different. Deeper.

It scared me.

Malakai was dangerous in too many ways. And if I wasn’t careful, he’d get too close.

Silence stretched between us then—not uncomfortable, but not entirely easy either. The storm outside raged on, filling the space between our breaths, between the unspoken words I wasn’t sure either of us wanted to say.

I found myself watching him.

The steady way he moved, the strength in his hands, the flickering of firelight over his skin. The gentle crease between his brows as he focused, the occasional flick of silver hair when a droplet slid too far down his temple.

I hated that I noticed these things.

Hated that my body still felt warm, despite the chill of the cave.

Hated that, for the first time in a long time, I didn’t want to be alone.

I tore my gaze away, swallowing hard.

This was dangerous.

He was dangerous.

Not just because of what he was, what he could do. Not just because he had been paid to deliver me to the Hada like some prized offering. But because he was getting in.

He was creeping into places inside me I had long since locked away.

And if I wasn’t careful, I wouldn’t want him to leave.

I forced myself to focus on anything but the weight of his gaze, shifting slightly on the cave floor. The sharp pull of pain in my back reminded me why we were here.

I turned my head to look at him, careful to keep my expression neutral.

"What about the others?” I asked.

“They’ll be fine,”

Malakai said, his voice easy, confident.

"They’ve survived with me this long. They’ll hunker down, wait out the storm.”

“Won’t they be worried?”

Malakai smirked.

"Dom will be biting his nails all night, but he knows better than to go out in weather like this. By now, he’s already found shelter for the crew and is pacing like a mama bear.”

A chuckle slipped out before I could stop it. I could see it—Dom, storming back and forth, growling to himself, arms crossed in frustration. He probably wanted to punch Malakai for going after me. Probably wanted to punch me for getting myself into this mess.

Exhaustion tugged at my eyelids, and I let my eyes drift shut.

Then Malakai spoke again, voice lower, softer.

"I know you might not want to talk about it . . . but I have to ask.”

I hesitated before opening my eyes again. Malakai wasn’t looking at me directly now, his hand rubbing the back of his neck, his expression strangely hesitant. As if he was the one ashamed to ask.

“How did you get the scars?”

A chill ran through me, despite the fire’s warmth.

I knew he’d seen them. They were impossible to miss, even with the fresh wounds from the nahual. Raised, pale lines snaking over my shoulders, crisscrossing my back. A permanent map of pain, etched into my skin by a hand that should have protected me.

My fingers instinctively traced the scar that ran from my collarbone down across the back of my ribs. One of many.

One for every lash.

I swallowed hard.

Malakai was waiting, but he didn’t press. He just watched, quiet, unreadable.

The memory surfaced before I could stop it.

The crack of the whip.

The sharp sting, slicing through flesh, tearing muscle.

The scent of blood—my blood—fresh, metallic, pooling beneath my knees.

Mother’s voice, cold as steel. Again.

My breath hitched. My fingers curled into my palms, nails digging into skin.

I hadn’t realized I was shaking until Malakai’s voice pulled me back.

“You don’t have to tell me,”

he murmured.

"I won’t make you.”

I blinked at him, my pulse hammering in my throat.

He wasn’t pitying me. He wasn’t looking at me with that awful, nauseating sympathy I hated. He just . . . saw me.

And somehow, that was worse.

I turned my face into my shoulder, hiding the warmth rising to my cheeks.

"It’s not a good story,”

I muttered.

Malakai exhaled, a quiet sound of understanding.

"The worst ones never are.”

We sat in silence, the storm raging beyond the cave’s mouth.

I should have been relieved he didn’t push. That he wasn’t pressing me for answers, for details, for confessions I wasn’t willing to give.

But a part of me—a small, treacherous part—almost wished he would.

Still, my mind wandered back to that place where I buried my worst hurts. Where the deepest betrayals remained untouched. Unbothered. Unacknowledged.

The sky burned.

A Rojano sunset stretched wide over the horizon, a blaze of red-orange heat licking the edges of the world. I walked into the gold-gilded courtyard, where the dying sun cast molten light against the pale cushions of the low-sitting settees. The scent of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the dry air, rich and heady, a scent that had once felt like home.

A Servidor entered the courtyard, silent as a shadow. He carried a golden tray laden with sweet breads, their honeyed tops glistening under the sun. A delicate glass of ice accompanied them. Without a word, he poured steaming coffee over the cubes, the liquid dark and smooth as it swirled with chilled sweet cream.

I lifted the drink to my lips, the coolness cutting through the heat pressing against my skin. Beyond the courtyard, Saraxia’s marketplace was alive with color and sound. Merchants bartered, voices rising in a symphony of demands and laughter. The scent of roasting meat and spiced fruits drifted up from the streets below.

Everything was familiar. Safe.

But something was wrong.

A sharp crack split the air like a lightning strike. A scream followed, high and desperate, echoing through the palace halls.

My breath hitched.

I turned, the glass slipping from my fingers and shattering against the marble floor. My feet carried me before I could think better of it, my heart slamming against my ribs.

I knew that sound.

I knew that scream.

The corridors stretched endlessly before me, their golden arches blurring as I rushed forward. My hands found the heavy wooden door before my mind caught up. It swung open with a groan of old hinges.

I froze.

The scent of blood thickened the air.

And there I was.

Chained to the golden wall.

Two fresh gashes ran down my back, crimson lines that dripped onto the polished floor. My wrists, bound in golden cuffs, strained against the restraints, my muscles trembling from the effort. Pain burned through me, sharp and hot, but it wasn’t the worst part.

Mother stood behind me.

Danixtl Zaldanna, Empress of Rojas, was not a woman to be trifled with.

Her golden robe shimmered, the long ends of her ebony hair trailing over her bare feet like spilled ink.

She tilted her head, watching me as one might observe a disobedient dog.

“You disappoint me,”

she murmured.

The whip unfurled in her hands, the silver metal of adamas glistening with fresh blood.

My blood.

I bit my lip, forcing my breath to steady. I would not beg. I would not break.

But when she pulled her arm back and the whip sang through the air, I flinched before the strike even landed.

The crack of leather against flesh was deafening.

I choked on my own scream, my body arching against the chains.

“Please, stop!”

The words ripped from my throat before I could swallow them down. I twisted against the restraints, desperate to meet her gaze.

"I’m sorry.”

Mother’s face remained impassive.

"Your life is not your own.”

Another lash.

Fire bloomed across my back, tearing through muscle. Blood welled and dripped onto the marble floor in a steady, rhythmic pattern.

I clamped my teeth together, swallowing the sob crawling up my throat.

Mother’s voice rose, raw with fury.

"Who are you?”

My breath shuddered. I knew the answer. I always knew the answer.

“I am the Nightshade of Rojas.”

The whip sang again, its bite carving new agony into my skin.

Mother’s eyes glowed with something fierce and untamed.

"What do you do?”

“I obey orders,”

I whispered.

The lash came down harder.

“What do you feel?”

she demanded, spit flying from her mouth.

I clenched my fists. My nails dug into my palms, fighting the tremor threatening to take over my body.

I knew what she wanted. I knew what she needed to hear.

“I feel nothing.”

For a moment, silence.

Then the whip sliced the air once more.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Pain blurred into white noise. My mind fractured, slipping between past and present, memory and dream. I lost track of how many times she struck me. My knees buckled, my head lolling forward as blood painted my skin.

Somewhere far away, I heard her breathing hard. Sweat dripped from her chin, mixing with my blood on the floor.

With a grunt, she tossed the whip aside. It landed with a sickening slap against the marble.

She turned on her heel, her robe billowing as she swept from the room without another word.

I slumped forward, the golden chains biting into my wrists. I didn’t have the strength to hold myself up anymore.

The door creaked open again.

A handful of Servidores entered, their eyes downcast, their movements quick and practiced. The chains fell away with the press of a key.

I barely felt the moment my body hit the floor.

A gentle hand brushed my hair from my face. A cool cloth pressed against my raw skin.

I should have felt grateful. I should have felt something.

But I didn’t.

Because I was the Nightshade of Rojas.

And I felt nothing.

“Nix?”

Malakai’s voice cut through the haze of memory, dragging me back into the present.

I blinked, shaking off the ghosts that clawed at the edges of my mind. The fire before me crackled, spitting embers into the air, but all I could hear was the sharp whistle of a whip, the echo of my screams against golden walls. My back throbbed as if the wounds had been ripped open anew.

I flexed my fingers, nails biting into my palms. I needed the pain. I needed to stay here, now.

Malakai had seen too much.

He had seen the parts of me I wanted to keep buried. The raw wounds that had never really healed. The fractures in my armor that I fought every day to keep from widening into something irreparable.

“I earned them,”

I said, forcing steel into my voice.

Malakai didn’t look away.

"Looks more like a punishment than scarification.”

I clenched my jaw.

"What does it matter?”

My words were sharp enough to cut.

"It’s in the past.”

The past. A place I refused to linger in for too long.

Because to think about it—really think about it—meant inviting the pain back in. And I had spent far too long building walls to keep that pain locked away. If I let myself feel it now, if I let myself crack even a little, I feared there would be nothing left of me but dust in the wind.

I swallowed against the ache in my throat and shoved the memories down, deeper into the dark. A part of me that I could never afford to dwell on. A part of me I could never let Malakai see.

“Just because it’s in the past doesn’t mean you’re over it, love,”

Malakai said quietly.

"Or that what happened was okay.”

I tensed.

The warmth in his voice was unbearable. It was easier when he was teasing me, when he was smug and insufferable. Not like this. Not when he sounded like he cared.

“I wasn’t the perfect obedient child.”

The confession slipped out before I could stop it.

"So Mother beat it into me.”

There it was.

The truth. The ugly, pathetic truth.

I clenched my jaw tighter, feeling the stone facade I’d spent years perfecting begin to fracture. I refused to let it crumble. Not here. Not in front of him.

Malakai was silent for a long moment, then exhaled, raking a hand through his silver hair.

"My mother was harsh, too. She never laid a hand on me, but—”

He hesitated, as if the words tasted bitter.

"Before my father died, she was . . . kind. Loving, even. But after he was gone, that love curdled into resentment. She blamed me for his death. Couldn’t even stand to look at me. She sent me away, and every interaction we’ve had since has been full of her manipulations and scheming.”

I tore my gaze from the fire to study him. Malakai never spoke of his past. He was always Malakai, the silver-tongued charmer, the Hada warrior who played games with hearts and grinned like he had no cares in the world.

But now?

Now, there was something solemn in the set of his jaw. Something raw behind his usual easy arrogance.

I scoffed.

"Sounds like she’d get along nicely with my mother.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, but there was no humor in it. His gaze flickered toward the fire, the glow casting deep shadows along his sharp cheekbones.

"I’m sorry for what she did to you,”

he said, voice edged with quiet conviction.

"People like that shouldn’t have children.”

Something inside me twisted.

I averted my gaze before I could see the pity in his eyes.

"When it’s all you know, you don’t realize there’s another way.”

A lump formed in my throat. I forced it down.

Keep talking. Keep pushing forward. Don’t let yourself stop and feel it.

“It’s why I have to get to Tiepaz,”

I murmured.

"So the world can be rid of me once and for all.”

Malakai stilled.

“Is that why you’re so eager to go all of a sudden?”

He tilted his head, arms crossing over his chest, his muscles flexing beneath the damp fabric of his shirt.

I kept my gaze on the fire, watching the embers dance like dying stars.

"Monsters belong in cages,”

I said quietly.

"You can’t trust me.”

Malakai shifted closer, his presence impossibly warm against the chill of the cave.

"You’re not that person anymore,”

he said.

"You don’t have to punish yourself for something that happened in the past.”

I dug my fingers into my temples. My breath hitched. The weight of his words was unbearable.

Because I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe I wasn’t beyond saving.

But the truth was, something was wrong with me. Something was changing inside of me.

And I didn’t know how to stop it.

To make matters worse, I didn’t understand this man. Here he was offering me something that we both knew I didn’t deserve, and for the world of me, I didn’t understand why.

“What do you want from me?”

I asked, exasperated.

His gaze was intense as he looked at me.

"The one thing you won’t give.”

I knew exactly what he wanted from me. He wanted me to let down my walls. To show him what resided beyond them. To see me. All of me. But he didn’t understand the gravity of what he was asking of me. He didn’t understand that beyond these towers I had surrounded myself with, lay nothing more than the withered husk of a girl along with her foolish dreams and hopes.

Malakai was asking me for honesty and I didn’t know if I could give that to him. Even though there was a part of me that desperately wanted to.

“I’m scared,”

I whispered. The words came out strained, almost desperate.

Malakai blew out a breath, his frustration evident in the sharp rise and fall of his chest.

"What are you so afraid of?”

His violet eyes locked onto mine, fierce and unyielding.

"Is it being Bruja?”

I swallowed, the weight of his question pressing down on me like an iron brand. I pushed up onto my elbows, ignoring the sharp protest of my back as the poultice slipped from my wounds and dripped down my waist in slow, cooling rivulets.

“Everything,”

I admitted. My voice felt thin, like a blade worn down to nothing.

"I’m afraid of everything. Of my magic. Of my instincts. Of my very nature.”

I ran a hand through my damp hair, trying to catch my breath, trying to hold myself together. But I could feel it—the storm inside me, the tempest of emotions I kept locked beneath layers of steel. And Malakai, damn him, had pried his way in.

“I’m afraid that I’m a slow-acting poison, just waiting to take everyone down when they least expect it.”

My voice wavered, but I pushed forward, unwilling to leave anything unsaid.

"I’m afraid that I infect everything I touch. That by just being here, in this cave with you, in some messed-up way, you’ve already signed your death sentence.”

I took a breath, my lungs burning from the weight pressing down on them.

“It’s only a matter of time before the monster inside me breaks free and does what it knows best,”

I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper.

"I’m afraid I won’t be able to stop it.”

But that wasn’t the worst part.

My throat tightened as I forced out the words that had haunted me since I was old enough to hold a blade.

“But most of all,”

I whispered, “I fear that I’ll enjoy it.”

Silence filled the cave, thick and suffocating. I hadn’t noticed the tears streaking down my face until I felt the warm sting of salt against my raw skin. I wiped them away angrily with the heel of my palm.

I wasn’t weak. I wasn’t supposed to cry.

Mother had made sure of that.

Malakai didn’t say anything at first. He just dropped his gaze to the fire, the golden glow flickering in his violet irises, making them look molten. His jaw was tight, his fingers flexing at his sides, like he was holding himself back.

Then he inhaled slowly and said, in a voice so steady it was almost maddening, “I want you to listen closely, love.”

The weight of the nickname sent a shiver through me, but I clenched my jaw and held his stare.

“If I were you,”

he continued, his voice like a slow-rolling tide, “I’d be careful about the way I perceive myself and my place in the world.”

I stiffened, but he pressed on.

“You have a distorted view of the role you’ve played and the opportunity that’s now in front of you. You can have a clean slate, Nix. Now you get to decide whose side you want to fight on—both figuratively and literally.”

I scoffed, shaking my head.

"You think it’s that simple? You think I can just burn away everything that I am? Wipe clean everything I’ve ever known? About myself? About my life? About the world?”

“You already are,”

he said, his voice soft once more.

"I also think it’s a hell of a lot simpler than you’re making it.”

His voice didn’t rise, didn’t waver. It was maddening how calm he was.

"You were raised in a cult-like culture where all you knew was what you were fed. I can’t blame you too much for fighting for that cause. Yes, you were an assassin. Yes, you were a soldier. Yes, Danixtl used you. Yes, she made sure you were the most ruthless weapon she could craft.”

Each word hit me like a stone, breaking through my ribs, rattling around in my chest.

“And yes, I understand that you hate yourself for what you were made into,”

Malakai went on, softer now, but no less intense.

"But all those things are a part of you now. You can’t escape that. You can’t fight who you are. But you can choose what you do with your skills. That is the only thing you have control over.”

I clenched my fists. Anger, frustration, shame—they warred inside me, a storm of emotion I had no name for. Because the worst part?

He wasn’t wrong.

I wanted to reject every single thing he said, to shove it back down his throat and tell him he didn’t understand. That he could never understand.

But deep down, I knew the truth.

I couldn’t escape who I was.

I had wanted to believe, even for a fleeting moment, that I could. That the girl who had been whipped until her flesh peeled, the girl who had been forged into a blade, could somehow be something else. Something softer. Something more than a weapon.

But Malakai had shattered that illusion.

A muscle in my jaw ticked as I forced my face into something unreadable. “So what?”

I said, voice hollow.

"You’re telling me to just accept it? Accept that I’m a killer?”

He exhaled sharply and lowered himself onto his stomach, propping himself up on his elbows until he was eye level with me.

“I’m telling you,”

he said, his voice slow and deliberate, “that you need to own it. And choose what you do with it.”

He made it sound so easy. And every part of me wanted to believe him. No matter how foolish it was.

“And while we’re at it,”

he murmured, “I don’t want to hear this nonsense about you not being able to control yourself.”

I scoffed, about to argue, but he was already moving.

In one fluid motion, Malakai stood and unsheathed his dagger from his belt. His grip was easy, confident, like the blade was an extension of his body. He tilted his head, considering me for a moment. Then, without hesitation, he grabbed the blade in his hand and tossed it toward me.

It landed in front of my hands with a soft thud.

“Prove to yourself that you control your own destiny,”

he said.

"That you are in control of what you do.”

I stared at the dagger. My fingers twitched.

Malakai took a step closer. I could feel his heat, the way his presence wrapped around me like a second skin.

“If you’re going to kill me,”

he said, his voice like silk, “do it because you want to.”

A slow smirk curved his lips, but there was something dangerous in his eyes.

“Not because it’s some urge you can’t control.”

Malakai sat back down, his movements unhurried, measured. He didn’t reach for his dagger. Didn’t shift away. Just sat there, watching me.

I felt the weight of his gaze as I stared at the blade lying in front of me, its long, sharp edge catching the firelight, flames dancing along the polished silver surface. My breath came uneven, rattling in my ribs.

I knew this weapon. Knew what it could do.

A thousand memories threatened to break free, surging to the forefront of my mind like a tide too strong to hold back. The weight of the dagger in my hand was familiar, almost comforting. My muscles twitched, aching to put it to use. My fingers curled tighter around the hilt, knuckles whitening with the force of my grip.

A dull, throbbing pain pulsed between my temples, and heat bloomed above my heart, seeping through my veins like molten iron. An urge—dark and insidious—coiled deep in my chest. Take the dagger. Use it.

The thought slithered through me, tempting, dangerous.

I pushed up onto my knees, biting back a wince as pain lanced through my back. The half-dried poultice smeared down my spine, but I ignored it. It was nothing. The fire in my chest burned hotter.

Malakai didn’t move as I stalked toward him, the cave shrinking around us until he was the only thing in my world. I stepped into his space, close enough that my knees brushed his thighs. The dagger felt like an extension of my hand, its weight an old friend.

Still, he didn’t flinch. Didn’t so much as lift a hand in defense.

Fool.

I lifted the blade to his throat.

Malakai inhaled carefully, his Adam’s apple bobbing against the edge of the steel. A single movement, a flick of my wrist, and I could end this game right now. Hada or not, he wouldn’t be able to stop me.

I expected tension in his jaw, the telltale flare of fear in his violet eyes. But all I saw was patience. A quiet, infuriating patience, like he was waiting. For me.

I searched his face, my mind racing with questions I didn’t have answers to. How could he trust me with his life like this? How could he sit there, unmoving, offering his throat to my blade as if I wasn’t a weapon honed for the sole purpose of spilling blood?

“Are you a fool?”

My voice was rough, almost unrecognizable.

He didn’t blink.

"Possibly.”

“I should kill you right now,”

I said, my voice thick.

“Then why don’t you?”

Because there was a part of me, no matter how small, that was warring with the parts of me that had been molded and shaped into all its sharp and twisted edges. Because that small part, that tiny blossoming flicker, didn’t want to.

I swallowed, my throat raw.

"Why do you trust me?”

“Because I see you, Nix.”

His voice was steady, unwavering.

"And I know you aren’t the monster you think you are.”

My breath caught. My fingers clenched the hilt of the dagger, my grip so tight my hand trembled.

“You know what I’ve done,”

I rasped, hating the way my voice cracked.

"You know what I am.”

Malakai’s gaze never wavered.

"I believe that everyone, no matter what they’ve done, deserves a second chance, especially when they so obviously want one.”

The words hit me like a hammer to the chest.

A single tear slipped down my cheek before I even realized it was there. Then another. And another.

I gasped, but the sob that had been building lodged in my throat, raw and painful. Something inside me cracked wide open, all the fragments of my soul spilling free, pouring down my face in hot, searing twin rivers.

Mother had always called this weakness.

But the tears didn’t feel weak. They felt like burning coals, scorching as they fell. My chest ached, stretched thin, as if I had been cracked open and left bare to the world.

Only a fool would call this weakness.

No.

It was strength.

Strength of the fiercest kind.

My grip on the dagger loosened. My breath shuddered out of me.

Malakai reached up slowly, his fingers brushing my cheek, his touch featherlight. I let him.

Because for the first time in my life, I wasn’t afraid.

With a sharp inhale, I took a step back. My fingers flipped the dagger’s edge in a smooth motion, rolling the tip between my fingertips before holding it out for Malakai to take. A peace offering. A line drawn in the sand that I dared not cross.

He didn’t take it right away.

Instead, his hand circled my wrist, slow and deliberate, his palm warm against my skin. He didn’t yank or force, just guided, lowering my arm with a patience I wasn’t sure I deserved. The dagger slipped from my grasp. It clattered against the stone floor, ringing through the cave like the final note of a song.

Yet Malakai’s touch didn’t leave me.

His fingers still rested against the underside of my wrist, his thumb a whisper above my pulse. He could feel it racing. I knew he could.

Slowly, he stepped forward, filling the space I had so carefully built between us. His body was a wall of quiet strength, his warmth seeping into the chilled spaces of my skin. He never dropped his gaze from mine, never hesitated. Like I wasn’t something to be feared. Like he wasn’t afraid of getting burned.

His other hand lifted—tentative, slow, like he was handling fragile glass. He cupped my cheek, calloused fingertips grazing my skin. I should’ve flinched. Should’ve wrenched away. But the contact sent a jolt through my chest, one that had nothing to do with fear.

Malakai wiped away the wet trail on my cheek with his thumb. His touch was impossibly gentle, but it unraveled me all the same.

“The Hada have a saying,”

he murmured, his voice just above a whisper, as if afraid of breaking whatever delicate thread had formed between us. His fingers trailed down the side of my face, stopping just under my chin, tilting it up until I had no choice but to meet his gaze.

“There is freedom in forgiveness.”

A bitter laugh scraped my throat.

"Both are impossible for me.”

My voice came out raw, barely more than a breath. I didn’t know a thing about freedom. Let alone forgiveness.

His hand never left my face, his fingers resting lightly, grounding me.

"The saying isn’t about others forgiving you,”

he said, his breath warm against my skin.

"It’s about you forgiving yourself.”

Forgiving myself.

The words punched through my ribs, striking a place I didn’t want touched. A place that had been locked away for years, buried under a mountain of guilt and survival.

I forced out a shaky breath, but it felt like dragging shards of glass through my lungs.

"What if I don’t know how to do that?”

Malakai studied me like he could unravel the mess inside my head if he looked hard enough. His thumb brushed another tear I hadn’t realized had fallen.

“Then let me help you find a way,”

he whispered.

The words shouldn’t have affected me as much as they did. But they did.

His scent surrounded me—spearmint and fir needles, sharp and grounding. It hit me in the chest, a rush of cold mountain air that made me feel lightheaded. I had been bracing myself for rejection, for disgust. But all I found in his violet eyes was quiet determination.

And something else.

Something I didn’t dare name.

The tension inside me cracked, and before I could talk myself out of it, I let go.

I stepped into his space, hesitated only a breath before wrapping my arms around him.

His body was warm beneath my cheek, solid, real. His arms came around me without hesitation, pulling me against him. Holding me like I wasn’t something dangerous. Like I wasn’t something to be controlled or feared.

I clenched my fingers into his shirt and let the weight of everything collapse.

I cried.

I cried until my body shook, until my throat ached, until my hands went numb. I cried until there was nothing left inside me but exhaustion. Until the world blurred and softened around the edges.

Malakai never pulled away.

Never loosened his grip.

He just held me.

And for the first time in years, I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t as lost as I thought I was.