Page 31 of We Were Meant to Burn (Ashes and Ruin Saga #1)

Malakai’s so-called tour of El Valle had quickly turned into something else entirely.

The shimmering lake before us, which he had originally claimed was just a nice place to visit, had somehow turned into a training ground. On a whim—because of course it was on a whim—he’d decided I should try to break through the collar on my own. If I could harness enough power, if I could tap into my magic despite the suppression, then maybe—maybe—I could shatter it.

I wasn’t convinced. But Malakai, in his infinite stubbornness, refused to let it go.

Which was how I found myself standing at the lake’s edge, subjected to breathing exercises like I was some novice learning how to meditate for the first time.

“Calm your breath,”

Malakai murmured, his voice close—too close—to my ear.

A shiver ran down my spine at the feel of his breath ghosting against my skin. Damn him.

“Remind me again why I agreed to this?”

I snapped, struggling to focus when he kept circling me like a predator closing in on the kill. He was hovering—not touching, not quite, but just there, close enough that his warmth pressed against my back, close enough that I could smell the sharp, clean scent of fir needles and spearmint that always clung to him.

He was infuriating.

“Because,”

he said, voice rich with amusement, “what’s more relaxing than a lake? And what better place to cool off in case you light me on fire?”

I exhaled sharply through my nose, refusing to give him the satisfaction of laughing.

Then, without warning, he stepped beside me and repositioned my stance, his large hands pressing against my shoulders.

“There’s too much tension here,” he mused.

“That’s just how they are,”

I bit out, already irritated.

“No, you’re just too tense.”

Easy for him to say. He wasn’t the one being touched every few seconds, wasn’t the one who had to pretend his hands weren’t setting fire to my skin. If I was tense, it was his fault. He was too close, too familiar, too much.

Malakai hummed, either oblivious or deliberately ignoring my obvious frustration. “Breathe,”

he instructed, his voice smoother this time, softer.

"Slow down. Center yourself.”

I tried. I really did.

My lips parted as I sucked in a slow breath, filling my lungs before releasing it in a steady exhale. I shut my eyes, focusing on the cadence of my breathing, on the even rhythm of my heart. Slow, I told myself. Steady. Controlled.

But I felt him.

Standing beside me, watching me, his gaze heavy, his body warm, his scent wrapping around me like a trap I had no desire to escape.

And damn it all, that was the only thing I could think about.

I tried to do as Malakai instructed, to pull my focus away from him and center it on my magic instead. I tried to calm my pulse, to steady the erratic rhythm of my heart, but with him standing there—so close, so watchful—it was impossible.

“Hold one hand out to the side,”

Malakai said, his voice dipping into that commanding tone he always used when he was trying to coax a reaction out of me.

"Envision your magic. Picture it inside of you, like a well you can tap into whenever you choose. Walk up to it. Take what you need. Let it trickle into your body, let it fill you. Focus it into your palm.”

I tried. Gods, I tried.

I reached for something inside myself, something that felt just out of reach, but there was nothing. No well, no power thrumming beneath my skin, no ember waiting to be stoked. Just empty silence. Just the dead weight of that damn collar.

Nothing. No spark. No fire. No power.

Frustration boiled in my gut. I clenched my jaw, my fingers twitching as I fought the urge to tear the collar off with my bare hands. Futile, but at least it would give me something to do with my hands. Other than reach for Malakai, that is.

With a growl, I opened my eyes and kicked at a loose rock, sending it skittering into the lake.

"This isn’t working,”

I snapped.

"The collar won’t let me access my magic.”

Malakai frowned, his arms crossing as he studied me.

"What I don’t understand,”

he mused, “is how you can use it sometimes and not others.”

He started pacing, his brows knitting together.

"What were you feeling when you used it? When it broke free?”

I sucked in a breath, forcing myself to think, to remember. The first time I had forced my magic past the collar’s suppression was in Aguatitlan. Dom had been sprinting down the steps of the castle, a gun trained on him. I had been scared—terrified, actually—that he wouldn’t make it, that he would be shot, and I’d end up right back where I started.

Then it had flared again when the trackerWasps had found us. Dom had been about to sacrifice himself for the others. I had been scared for him then, too.

And again, when the ciguapa had attacked.

Fear, I realized.

Every time my magic had broken free, it had been because of fear.

But not just any type of fear. Not fear for myself. Not fear of the thing attacking me. No. I had been afraid for Dom.

The thought sent a strange sensation curling through my chest, something I didn’t know what to do with, something I wasn’t prepared to name. I had spent so much time convincing myself that Dom was just another frustrating obstacle in my life, just another person standing between me and my freedom. And yet—every single time—my magic had flared to life for him. To protect him. As if somewhere deeply rooted inside me, some unconscious part of me understood that he was important.

Malakai was still watching me, waiting for my answer. I wasn’t about to tell him the truth. I wasn’t about to admit what I had just discovered. Not yet.

I swallowed hard. “Fear,”

I said, my voice steady despite the storm raging inside me.

"Each time, I was afraid.”

Malakai nodded, his gaze dark with something unreadable.

"Channeling emotions is one way to access magic,”

he said.

"But it’s unpredictable at best. Some people use anger—it’s quick, raw, burns hot. But just as easily as it flares to life, it burns out. It consumes. And fear . . .”

He exhaled through his nose.

"Fear is powerful, but it makes you reckless. Desperate. Accessing magic from a place of calm and control—that’s the most reliable way to wield it.”

I clenched my jaw, irritation prickling beneath my skin. Not because I didn’t understand what he was saying. I did. I had seen firsthand how my magic lashed out when fueled by fear. How unpredictable it was when I let emotions take the reins. But what Malakai wasn’t acknowledging was the problem I actually had—how was I supposed to approach my magic from a place of calm when I never felt calm?

There was always a storm inside me, a churning sea of anger and fear and resentment. And beneath that, deeper and darker, the part of me that knew what I had done with my magic before. The people I had hurt. The ones I had killed. I had lost control so many times before. I couldn’t—wouldn’t—let that happen again.

If it meant keeping the people around me safe, I was willing to never use my magic again.

Malakai must have sensed the direction of my thoughts because he took a slow, deliberate step toward me.

"Close your eyes,”

he murmured, his voice dipping into something low and coaxing.

I hesitated. I didn’t want to do this. Didn’t want to fail again. But then his fingers brushed against mine, sliding beneath my palm to cup it in his own, so both of our hands faced upward. His other arm coiled around my waist, steadying me, pulling me closer against the solidness of his chest.

A shiver ran through me, but I obeyed.

“Being Bruja is about balance,”

Malakai said. His voice was so close now, his breath grazing my temple.

"It’s about knowing you can lose control . . . and choosing not to.”

I swallowed hard. His heartbeat thrummed against my back, steady and strong. I matched my breath to his, letting the rhythm of his pulse guide me. And—goddess—for the first time in longer than I could remember, something inside me stilled. A quiet warmth spread through me, expanding across my ribs, unfurling through my veins like embers glowing beneath ash.

Malakai’s fingers tightened around mine, grounding me in the sensation. His lips barely grazed the shell of my ear as he whispered, “Open your eyes, love.”

I did.

And there, in my palm, flickering and dancing to its own rhythm, was a flame.

It burned bright red and yellow, alive and pulsing, casting a golden glow against Malakai’s skin. It was small, contained, delicate—but it was mine.

I sucked in a breath, my heart pounding against my ribs. The flame licked toward the sky, twisting and curling, waiting.

Terrifying.

And beautiful.

“Well done,”

Malakai murmured over my shoulder, his voice a low, satisfied hum.

"Now, let me show you something.”

Before I could ask what, cool liquid adamas slithered from his palm and coiled around my wrist, snaking its way toward the flame flickering in my hand. A shiver ran through me as the metal curled against my skin, like a living thing drawn to warmth. When the two elements met, the fire pulsed, shifting from crimson and gold to a deep, mesmerizing violet—the exact shade of Malakai’s eyes.

My breath caught. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

I turned slightly, glancing over my shoulder to meet his gaze. He was already watching me.

“When I was banished from Tiepaz and they stripped my wings, took my runes, I lost most of the magic in my blood,”

he said, his voice quiet, thoughtful.

"Over time, I learned to control metal. It’s why it’s the only magic you ever see me use.”

His fingers ghosted over mine, twining between them, and the metal followed, a ribbon of silver threading through our joined hands.

“Did you know that adamas doesn’t need flame to be molded?”

he asked, his eyes flickering between mine and the fire cradled in my palm.

"It just needs an Acerador’s will. But in Tiepaz, the Hada introduce it to fire early. With the help of a Fuegador, the adamas becomes something else. Stronger. Unbreakable.”

His fingers curled over mine, closing my hand. The flame flickered out. The liquid metal retreated, slithering back into his palm like a serpent returning home.

“Nix,”

he breathed.

Just my name—soft, reverent—but it hit me like gravity had vanished, like I was falling through something I couldn’t stop.

“Ever since you came into my life,”

he said, voice low and sure, “I feel like that adamas.”

My brows lifted.

"You feel like I’m burning you?”

He laughed—head tossed back, full and unguarded—and then turned me to face him fully.

“No, love. Never.”

His hand reached up, tucking a wisp of hair behind my ear with a tenderness that unraveled something deep inside me.

"You’ve brought me back to life. I’ve never felt more alive than I do when I’m with you.”

The air left my lungs like he’d stolen it. Like he’d reached inside and pulled every last breath from my chest with nothing but a few impossible words.

His eyes locked on mine again, and everything else faded—every sound, every doubt, every ache that had once made a home in my ribs.

“Together, you and I,”

he whispered, voice dipping into something rougher, heavier, “are the fire and the adamas.”

The words sent a jolt through me, a bolt of heat that curled low in my stomach and spread outward, slow and consuming, like embers catching on dry wood.

His gaze dropped to my mouth.

And goddess help me—I imagined it.

What it would be like to kiss him.

To stop running, stop second-guessing, and just let go.

To let all the weight, all the pain, all the questions burn away into nothing.

Just this. Just him.

And me, no longer afraid to feel alive.

But then reality slammed back into me—cold, harsh, unrelenting.

I thought about what had brought us here in the first place.

How he had a job to do.

How I was part of that job.

How he was supposed to deliver me to the Hada of Tiepaz.

No matter what had sparked between us—no matter how much we both clearly wanted it—at the end of the day, I was a task. A mission. A temporary complication in a life that would keep moving once I was out of the picture.

And then there was Dom.

The marca. The blood. The tangled, impossible truth I hadn’t even begun to unpack.

I needed to face that first. Needed to understand what that connection meant—what he meant—before I could even begin to sort out how I felt about Malakai.

Because I didn’t want temporary. I didn’t want fleeting moments born out of adrenaline and proximity.

I wanted something that would last. Something real.

I’d been lied to enough in this life—used, manipulated, discarded. If I was going to build a new life for myself, it had to stand on something solid. Something stronger than sweet words and good intentions.

So even though every part of my body screamed at me to lean into him, to chase the warmth he offered and let it wrap around me like armor . . . I didn’t.

I pulled away, gently untangling myself from him.

He didn’t stop me. But I felt the shift, the slight stillness in his body as he waited, watched.

I gave him a smile—thin, forced, the kind that didn’t quite make it to my eyes—and said, “I guess it’s a good thing we’re on the same side, then.”

It was a stupid thing to say.

Especially after what he’d just confessed.

But there was too much churning beneath my skin. Too many questions with no answers.

And I couldn’t afford to drown in something I wasn’t ready to feel.