Page 33 of We Were Meant to Burn (Ashes and Ruin Saga #1)

Ilingered at the edges of the festival, drinking in the sight before me, feeling like I had stepped into another world.

The night pulsed with life, the air thick with a heady mix of music, laughter, and the fragrant scents of cinnamon and sugar.

The energy was electric, like a heartbeat thrumming beneath the surface of reality.

A band played in the center of a grand square, their instruments weaving a melody that sent dancers spinning across the space in a blur of silk and shimmering gold.

Tables lined the perimeter, overflowing with fruits, meats, and pastries drizzled in honey.

Floating candles drifted lazily overhead, casting a soft, ethereal glow against the backdrop of towering trees and ivy-laced archways.

I hadn’t expected to enjoy myself tonight.

Not after everything.

Not with the queen’s words still whispering through my mind, curling into the crevices of my thoughts, latching on like thorns.

You are the whisper of death. The flame of life. The wielder of heaven’s sword. What did she mean? Why had she looked at me that way, like she knew something?

I exhaled sharply, trying to shake it off.

The festival was beautiful, dreamlike, and yet something gnawed at me.

An unease I couldn’t name.

And then there were the cabanas.

Sectioned off by billowing curtains of silver and gold, they were meant for privacy, but the silhouettes moving behind them left little to the imagination.

The flickering candlelight illuminated bare limbs tangled together, bodies moving in a rhythm together.

Soft moans and whispered promises laced the air, blending seamlessly with the music.

A heat flared in my chest, unfurling low in my belly.

I swallowed hard, dragging my gaze away, but the image was already seared into my mind. What would it feel like? To be wanted like that, to be touched with such reverence, to let go completely?

The thought sent a rush of warmth through me.

A hand landed on my shoulder, and I spun, instinct kicking in before I registered the familiar presence behind me.

Malakai.

He was too close—always too close. The warmth of his palm seared through my skin, grounding me and unraveling me all at once.

I followed his gaze as it flicked toward the cabanas, a slow, knowing smile curving his lips. His violet eyes gleamed with mischief as he turned his attention back to me.

"Is that curiosity I see on your face?”

A blush roared up my neck, burning across my cheeks like wildfire. “Perhaps,”

I admitted, my voice quieter than I intended.

"Though I don’t know if I’d ever be brave enough to do it in the open like that.”

His chuckle was low, dark, and full of something I couldn’t quite name.

"Everyone is drunk on Hada wine. After a glass or two, no one cares who sees them anymore.”

I tilted my head, intrigued.

"Hada wine?”

His grin widened as he reached past me, plucking a crystal goblet from a passing tray. The liquid inside was a deep shade of ruby, swirling like molten garnet as he tipped the glass toward me.

"It has . . . an effect,”

he murmured, his voice a velvet promise.

"It makes you feel things more intensely. Heightens sensation. Lowers inhibitions.”

I took the glass from his hand, the tips of my fingers brushing his. The simple touch sent a shiver up my spine.

I lifted the goblet to my lips, never breaking his gaze.

"Sounds dangerous.”

His eyes darkened as he leaned in, his breath warm against my ear.

"Only if you fight it.”

I took a sip.

Malakai grinned before slipping the flute from my fingers and taking a long sip before setting it down on a nearby table.

When he turned back to me, he hinged at the waist into a graceful bow, sweeping low before me with a hand extended, his violet eyes gleaming with mischief.

“May I have this dance?”

His tone was formal, but the teasing lilt was undeniable. Testing me. Watching me.

My stomach tightened.

There was something different about him tonight.

The way he looked at me, the way he had been looking at me since the moment I stepped into the festival. Like he was seeing me for the first time, like he had to commit every detail to memory.

I must have hesitated for a beat too long, because he added, “You’re not just going to leave me hanging here, are you? I admit, I didn’t expect you to say ‘no.’”

I huffed a laugh, shaking my head like I could dislodge the thoughts clawing at the back of my mind.

It was just a dance. Harmless.

And yet . . .

Something in my gut twisted, a quiet, persistent warning. Don’t get too close. Don’t blur the line. Don’t let yourself want this.

So, I did what I’d gotten far too good at lately. I made up an excuse.

“I would gladly dance with you if I had any idea how,”

I said, feigning innocence, the lie smooth on my tongue.

Malakai gasped like I’d slapped him, hand flying to his chest in mock horror.

"Something the Nightshade doesn’t know how to do? Shocking.”

I swatted his arm, unable to stop the grin tugging at my lips.

Gods, he was insufferable.

Sure, I hadn’t known how to brush my own hair six months ago. I didn’t know how to pitch a tent, or hunt, or cook without nearly poisoning myself. But I’d learned.

With him.

With all of them.

Somewhere along the way, this group—this chaos-ridden, loud-mouthed, maddening group—had become something dangerously close to friends.

And that thought terrified me more than anything.

Because if I let myself want this—any of it—it meant I had something to lose.

He was quick and grabbed my hand in his as I went to smack him once more, his grin only widening, his thumb stroking lazily over the back of my knuckles. Like he had a right to touch me like this. Like he knew I wouldn’t pull away.

“Well, I happen to disagree,”

he said, his voice softer now, considering.

"I think you do know how to dance.”

“Is that so?”

I asked, narrowing my eyes.

"You’ve become awfully sure of yourself since we returned to your home.”

His lips—those infuriating, delicious lips—curled into a smirk.

"I’m always sure of myself, love.”

I rolled my eyes, but the smile tugging at the corner of my mouth betrayed me. I hated how easily that cocky confidence of his got under my skin. Hated it more, that I didn’t really hate it at all.

Then his expression shifted—just slightly. That spark of mischief dulled, replaced by something quieter, something I couldn’t quite name.

“Besides,”

he said, voice lower now, gaze catching mine like he meant to pin me in place, “you know I’m right.”

A beat.

“You dance with death, don’t you?”

The words slid between us like a blade, slow and intimate.

I tried to brush off the intensity of the moment—the heat of his stare—by playing it cool. Casual. Like my pulse wasn’t thudding in my ears.

He had a gift for this. For pulling me off balance. For getting under my skin and digging his way in like he belonged there. Like he knew the parts of me I fought to keep hidden.

And he did it all with that infuriating stare—those violet eyes that could unravel me with a single look. Eyes I could get lost in if I wasn’t careful.

I couldn’t let myself keep falling.

Not when I wasn’t sure there’d be anything left to catch me.

I exhaled sharply.

"Fighting off murderous beasts is not the same.”

“Sure it is.”

He was already pulling me toward the square, weaving me through the crowd.

"Dancing with me is a lot easier, I guarantee you. Just promise not to kill me afterward.”

I laughed despite myself.

"You’re not funny.”

“Says the girl with a smile plastered across her face.”

His voice was low, knowing, his eyes roving over me, from the way the white dress clung to my body to the mask I held in my free hand.

Malakai’s hands were warm and grounding. He pulled me into the throng of dancers and set me into the steps. But I was stiff, my movements clumsy, my instincts fighting against him. When he tried to spin me, I twisted the wrong way, my heel catching against the grass. I stumbled, colliding into him, my hands splaying against his chest as my foot came down hard on his.

“Damn it,”

I muttered, mortified.

Malakai only chuckled, his breath warm as he leaned in close.

"Relax, love.”

He didn’t let me go, didn’t let me shrink away. Instead, he pulled me closer, pressing us together until there was no mistaking the solid weight of him against me. His lips brushed the shell of my ear, and my breath hitched.

“Dancing, just like a fight, is all about connection,”

he murmured, his voice dark and smooth, a caress against my skin.

"You have to pay attention to your partner. Anticipate how they’ll move. Match your body to theirs.”

He stepped forward, his leg nudging against mine. I let instinct take over, shifting back in response.

“There you go,”

he murmured, satisfaction laced in his voice.

The next few steps were slow and deliberate, his hands at my waist, guiding me—not forcing, not pushing, just leading. The heat of him bled into me, and every place we touched sent electricity sparking along my skin. He turned me again, and this time, I moved with him. Fluid. Effortless. Natural.

“Good girl,”

he purred.

Lightning shot through me. My skin burned, every nerve ending alive and sparking. The words curled through me like smoke, thick and intoxicating. I was suddenly aware of everything—the press of his hand at the small of my back, the warmth of his breath against my temple, the way his fingers traced lazy circles against my waist, like he had no intention of letting go.

I met his gaze, my pulse hammering. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes—his eyes burned.

If he kissed me now, I knew I wouldn’t stop him. And that was the exact opposite of what I should want.

The warmth from the Hada wine spread through me, pooling low in my belly, wrapping around my limbs like a slow-burning fire. It made me feel . . . too much. Too aware of Malakai’s nearness, the way his breath skimmed my cheek, the way his violet eyes lingered on me like I was something worth looking at. I needed a distraction. Something to drown out the pulse thrumming between us, the weight of his gaze pressing into me like a touch.

I cleared my throat, my voice coming out more breathless than I wanted.

"So, when was the last time you were here?”

Malakai’s expression shifted, the easy playfulness draining from his face. His jaw ticked as he looked away, his fingers tightening around my waist before he finally answered.

"I was here a few hundred years ago, before I joined the Rojano Bloodguard.”

I blinked. I knew he had lived for centuries, but hearing it like that—a few hundred years ago—still sent a ripple of unease through me. He spoke of time the way I might speak of weeks.

His gaze darkened as he spun me out, then drew me back in.

"I had just lost An’dru and was spiraling. My mother called me back to El Valle to serve her. I thought maybe she wanted to repair the damage in our relationship. Make amends. But I was wrong.”

His lips pressed into a thin line.

"When I realized I was nothing more to her than a weapon to wield, I left for Rojas.”

The words hit me like a fist to the ribs.

His own mother had treated him like a weapon. Like something to be used. The same way Danixtl had treated me. The realization sent a sharp pang through my chest.

Malakai exhaled, shaking his head.

"She’s despised me ever since. She feels like I rejected her. But I knew I could bring you to her. There’s nothing my mother loves more than a deal well made. I knew I’d have to practically trade my firstborn for her to do anything, but . . .”

He lowered his face to me then, his eyes sweeping over my features with something unreadable.

"I couldn’t exactly have you dying on me either.”

And then, the bastard winked.

The warmth I’d been feeling evaporated in an instant, replaced by a cold, hollow ache. A reminder of what I was—an assignment. A commodity to be traded. Nothing more.

I swallowed the lump rising in my throat, keeping my expression blank as I forced myself to speak, my voice quiet.

"I’m no good to you dead. I remember.”

His brows pulled together in something that almost looked like frustration. Then, to my surprise, he reached out, fingers tipping my chin up until I was forced to look at him. His touch was careful, like he was afraid I might disappear if he pressed too hard.

"You know it’s more than that,”

he murmured.

I didn’t know. Not for sure. Not in the way that mattered.

Doubt curled around me like smoke, suffocating. I wanted to believe him. I wanted to think I was something more than a transaction. But how could I? Every time I thought we were something real, I remembered—he was the one delivering me to Tiepaz. He was the one who had taken me.

I turned my face away from his touch, grounding myself in the ache that sat heavy in my chest.

"Malakai, you were hired to kidnap me. You’re delivering me to a place that . . . purchased me.”

The words felt foreign in my mouth, sharp and ugly, but they were true.

His hand fell away from my chin, leaving a trail of fire in its absence, but it was the look in his eyes that unraveled me completely. Pained. Desperate. As if he hated the truth as much as I did. As if he wished he could erase it.

He reached for me again, hesitant at first, like he wasn’t sure if I’d let him touch me. His fingers ghosted over my cheek, the barest whisper of warmth, and I felt it everywhere.

"Don’t go to Tiepaz then,”

he murmured.

My breath hitched, my body going rigid. “What?”

The word barely made it past my lips.

Malakai’s fingers traced down my jaw, then lower, skating along the column of my throat, slow and deliberate. The other hand threaded into the back of my hair, holding me steady, his grip firm but not unkind, like he thought I might bolt.

"Don’t you know yet?”

His voice was quiet, but the weight of it settled over me like a heavy cloak. His eyes, violet and endless, traced every inch of my face, committing me to memory.

A storm raged inside me, pulling me in two directions at once. One part of me—the foolish part—wanted to give in, to pretend, just for a moment, that this could be real. That he wasn’t the one who had taken me. That he wasn’t delivering me to my fate. That I wasn’t bought.

But the rational part of me—the part that had learned, over and over again, that hope was a dangerous thing—clung to logic like a lifeline.

"What about the money the Hada paid?”

I asked, my voice hoarse.

He shrugged, completely unconcerned.

"I say screw it.”

A sharp breath left my lungs. He was serious. Mad. And yet, the worst part? I wanted to believe him.

My heart pounded, a violent rhythm against my ribs.

"What about the others?”

I asked, struggling to keep my voice steady.

"What will they say about losing their cut?”

His lips curled, slow and deliberate. That maddening, arrogant smirk that made me want to punch him and kiss him in equal measure.

"I already talked to them.”

He leaned in, his breath a whisper against my skin, sending a shiver down my spine.

"They don’t care.”

I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. It was just him. Standing there in the candlelight, silver hair kissed by the glow, his gaze locked onto mine like I was something precious.

“Nix.”

He said my name like it was something sacred, something worth worshiping. His hands tightened in my hair, his forehead nearly touching mine.

"Stay with me . . . with us.”

I was drowning.

I had spent my entire life fighting, carving out my own survival, never letting anyone close enough to be a weakness. But here, in this moment, with his hands in my hair, his voice wrapped around my name like a prayer—I wanted to be weak.

I wanted to say ‘yes.’

I wanted to let myself belong.

Even though it was reckless. Even though I was playing with fire in more ways than one. Even though it would likely end with my mortal heart shattered into a million tiny shards.

Some foolish, desperate part of me wanted to know what it would be like to be loved by him.

Malakai’s fingers skimmed the line of my cheek, slow and reverent, like he was trying to memorize the shape of me, like if he looked away, I might disappear.

“A long time ago,”

he murmured, voice rough with memory, “I promised myself I would never beg. Not for mercy. Not for freedom. Not for anything.”

The words settled between us, quiet but heavy.

“And now?”

I asked, barely breathing.

His eyes met mine, and it felt like he was looking through me, past all my masks and sharp edges and hollow armor. “And now,”

he said, “I think I would beg for you.”

The air left my lungs.

His voice dipped lower, raw and aching.

"Please say ‘yes,’”

he whispered.

"Just once. Just to me.”

I wanted to.

Every part of me wanted to fall into him, let him carry the weight I never asked anyone else to touch. But fear clawed its way up my throat, bitter and relentless. I couldn’t let myself believe this. Believe him.

So, I did what I always did. I twisted the knife.

“Tell me this isn’t real,”

I said.

"That this is just survival. Just proximity. Just blood and adrenaline and—”

“I wish I could,”

he cut in, hoarse.

"It’d be easier if it was.”

“You should forget about me.”

“I can’t,”

he said.

"You’ll haunt me for the rest of my life.”

His words shouldn’t have meant anything. Shouldn’t have mattered. But they sank into my ribs like heat, like hunger, like hope.

“I’m bad news, Malakai. For you. For the others. For anyone who gets too close.”

My voice cracked despite my best effort to sound steady.

"You should walk away.”

“And yet, you’re the one stepping closer.”

He was right.

I hadn’t even noticed it—but with every denial, every breath, I’d moved closer. Like gravity was pulling me toward him.

“You should hate me,”

I whispered, the words slipping out like a confession. Like a prayer.

Malakai’s hand dropped from my face and wrapped around my waist, gently, but like he was anchoring me.

"I’d burn the world for you.”

I swallowed.

"You would kill for me?”

His lips brushed against mine—not a kiss, just a breath away.

"I’d bring the world to its knees for you.”

And the worst part?

Some broken, bleeding part of me wanted to let him.

To be loved by him was like getting too close to the sun. It was reckless, consuming—an inferno that promised to devour everything in its path. And still, I never wanted to step away.

Even if it burned me down to bone and ash.