Page 35 of We Were Meant to Burn (Ashes and Ruin Saga #1)

Iwoke to warmth—his warmth.

The steady rise and fall of his chest beneath my cheek, the strong arm draped over my waist, anchoring me to him even in sleep. For a moment, I simply lay there, reveling in the rare sensation of peace, of belonging.

Then reality crept in.

I had slept with Malakai.

The memory surged through me—the way his hands had held me, like I was something precious. The way his lips had felt against mine, soft and reverent at first, then hungry, desperate, like he had waited an eternity for me. The way I had melted into him, had wanted him so fiercely, it scared me.

Las Madres.

Carefully, I shifted, propping myself up just enough to watch him. Even in sleep, he looked like something carved by the goddesses—his silver hair tousled, his lashes dark against his sun-kissed skin. The remnants of last night still clung to him, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips, the tension that so often sat in his brow now smoothed away.

I should have pulled away. I should have put distance between us before he woke, and I had to face the weight of what we had done, what it meant.

Instead, I reached out, fingers tracing the faint scars that marked his shoulder—the remnants of what had been done to him, of what he had lost.

His eyes fluttered open.

Violet, deep and endless, locking onto mine.

A slow, knowing smile curved his lips, and he reached up, his fingers brushing the edge of my jaw, his thumb ghosting over my cheek as if testing whether I was real. Whether I was still here.

“Good morning,”

he murmured, his voice thick with sleep.

I swallowed, my throat tight.

"Good morning.”

His eyes searched mine, and for a moment, neither of us spoke. The weight of last night hung between us, unspoken but heavy, pressing against my ribs, making it hard to breathe.

Then, softly, he said, “Do you regret it?”

The question unraveled me.

“No,”

I whispered, my voice barely audible.

"But I’m scared.”

He exhaled through his nose, his fingers skimming down my arm before his hand found mine, lacing our fingers together. “Me too,”

he admitted, voice rough.

"But not of this.”

I let out a shaky breath.

"Then what are you scared of?”

Malakai was quiet for a long moment, his grip tightening slightly.

"That you’ll decide this”—his thumb brushed over my knuckles, as if grounding himself—“was a mistake.”

My chest ached. I wanted to tell him he was wrong. That I could never see him as a mistake. But the words felt too big, too heavy to say out loud.

So instead, I did the only thing I could.

I leaned down and kissed him.

Slow this time, lingering. Tasting.

His breath hitched, and then his arms wrapped around me, pulling me down against him as he deepened the kiss. His hands trailed down my back, his touch igniting every nerve in my body. I sighed against his lips, tilting my head, letting him consume me, letting myself get lost in him.

There was no going back now.

I was his.

And goddess help me, I didn’t want to be anything else.

We lay there for a while, tangled in each other, breathing in sync, neither willing to move first.

Eventually, Malakai shifted, pulling me against him, his chin resting lightly atop my head.

"Get dressed,”

he murmured.

"I want to show you something.”

I didn’t question him as we slipped from the bed and began to search the cabana for our tossed garments. It was such a mundane thing to do in the presence of another, full of all the awkward fumbling of finding a quickly discarded shoe, a sock somehow hanging from a wooden beam above, and we laughed throughout it all.

He laced his fingers with mine, guiding me from the cabana and through the remnants of the festival the night before. The sky was just beginning to lighten, dawn creeping over the horizon, bathing the world in soft lavender and gold.

His pace was steady but unhurried, like he was in no rush to get there. The heat of his palm pressed against mine, grounding me in a way I didn’t want to admit I needed.

After a few minutes, the forest thinned, opening into a grove where the air shimmered with an otherworldly glow.

My breath caught.

Before us stretched a field of blue flowers, their petals pulsing faintly as if breathing. The light they emitted bathed the area in a cool, ethereal shimmer, casting soft blue light against the moss-covered ground. Above them, thumb-sized creatures with gossamer wings floated lazily from bloom to bloom, plucking petals and twirling them between their tiny hands before flitting off to another bulb.

“What kind of flowers are they?”

I asked, watching as the tiny winged creatures flitted between the petals, their translucent wings catching the early morning light.

“Dulcamara,”

Malakai murmured beside me.

"Nightshade.”

At the name, my stomach twisted into a knot. I stiffened.

The word settled over me like a curse. Nightshade. My namesake. The deadly plant Danixtl had named me after, as if she’d spoken my fate into existence from the moment I was born.

I turned toward Malakai, my heartbeat a frantic drum against my ribs.

"Why did you bring me here?”

His expression softened, as if he could feel the weight pressing against my chest, could sense the way my mind raced toward shadows I didn’t want to revisit.

“Because I thought you should know what the dulcamara can really do.”

He plucked one of the glowing flowers, stem and all, and tucked it behind my ear, his fingers brushing against my temple.

“El día de la brujería, sería vivía,”

he murmured.

Life would be had on the witching day.

I frowned, turning the phrase over in my head, trying to grasp its meaning.

Malakai’s lips curled at the corners, the flicker of a secret dancing in his violet eyes.

"On the night of brujería, the dulcamara grants life instead of death. It can cure any illness. Heal any wound.”

He studied me, his gaze searching.

"You see? From the deadliest of things can grow the greatest good.”

Something in his voice, in the way he looked at me, made my breath hitch. I had the distinct feeling he wasn’t just talking about the dulcamara anymore.

I exhaled sharply, shaking my head.

"Why do you have so much faith in me?”

My voice was barely above a whisper.

"I don’t deserve it.”

I dropped my gaze to the ground, unable to meet his eyes.

Malakai stepped closer. His fingers found my chin, tilting my face up until I had no choice but to look at him.

“The Hada believe that some souls were split into parts,”

he said, his thumb stroking the curve of my jaw.

"That their other halves will call out to them, waiting to be reunited again.”

I swallowed, my throat tight.

"I don’t care what the Hada believe, Malakai.”

My voice came out quieter than I intended.

"What do you believe?”

Malakai inhaled, slow and deep, his eyes dark and unreadable. His thumb traced a slow line along my cheek, his touch feather-light, like I might shatter beneath his hands.

“I believe your soul calls to mine,”

he murmured, his voice so quiet it was nearly lost in the hum of the grove.

"I believe that I have so much faith in you because I see that you don’t have any for yourself.”

He brushed his knuckles along my skin, his touch reverent.

"And I believe that until you do, there is nothing wrong if you want to borrow mine.”

My throat closed. The weight of his words, the depth of his belief in me—it was overwhelming.

I reached up, brushing my fingers along his jaw, tracing the faint stubble there.

"You make it sound so simple,”

I whispered.

“It is,”

he said, his voice full of conviction.

"It always has been.”

I crept onto my toes to kiss him, slow and deep, pouring everything I couldn’t say into the press of my lips against his.

And when we finally pulled apart, when we stood there in the glow of the dulcamara, breathing the same air, hearts pounding in unison—I knew.

I had completely fallen for him.

And I didn’t want to stop.

The day stretched on around us, the field of glowing flowers swaying with the breeze, the tiny-winged creatures scattering golden dust as they danced from petal to petal. The hush of the forest had settled, leaving only the rustle of leaves and the distant hum of the Hada city above.

At some point, we laid down under the canopy of trees, and I curled into Malakai’s side, resting my head against his shoulder as we lay in the cool grass. His fingers trailed lazy patterns along my spine, his warmth sinking into me, anchoring me in a way I hadn’t known I needed. The realization still unsettled me—I wasn’t used to wanting something this much, to needing someone this much.

But I did.

We spent the rest of the day like that—talking, kissing, wrapped in each other until night fell and the tiny fairies returned to the dulcamara grove to tend to their blossoms. Their wings twinkled in the backdrop of the night, tiny trails of fairy dust floating on the breeze in their wake.

“Do you miss it?”

I asked, my voice barely louder than a whisper, not wanting to disturb the fragile peace between us.

Malakai hummed low in his throat, his fingers threading absently through my hair.

"Miss what?”

“Your wings.”

I hesitated before adding softly, “Flying.”

He was quiet for a long moment. Then, with a sigh, he admitted, “Every day.”

I looked up at him. The shadows cast by the dulcamara flowers painted his sharp features in shades of blue and violet, making him look almost otherworldly. But it was the grief in his expression that struck me the most. A quiet ache, so deeply ingrained it had become part of him.

“Though I regret the reason they were taken from me,”

he continued, “I don’t regret everything that’s happened since.”

He tilted my face up, his thumb grazing the edge of my jaw, his eyes searching mine.

"They led me to you.”

The words sent a shiver down my spine, one that had nothing to do with the cool night air.

Before I could respond, before I could let my own words betray how deeply he had carved himself into my soul, he kissed me.

This one was softer than the others. Slower. A promise more than a demand. His lips lingered on mine, his fingers tangling in my hair as if he could pull me closer, as if there would never be a ‘close enough’ when it came to us.

I sighed against him, letting myself fall.

And for once, I didn’t think about what came next.

Eventually, the chill of the night crept in, and Malakai murmured against my temple, “Come on, love. You need sleep.”

I didn’t argue. For once, I wasn’t thinking about running, or fighting, or what waited for me beyond this night. I just wanted to be with him. To stay in this moment a little longer.

Hand in hand, we made our way back through the trees, the glow of the dulcamara fading behind us.

When we reached my cabin, Xixi was curled on the wooden railing outside, her tail flicking lazily. Her blue eyes gleamed in the moonlight, sharp and knowing. At the sight of us together, her ears perked, and she chuffed in what could only be described as smug satisfaction.

I narrowed my eyes at her.

"Not a word.”

She stretched luxuriously as she let out a long, dramatic yawn, clearly basking in the moment. Then, with a flick of her tail, she bounded off into the darkness, disappearing into the trees.

Malakai chuckled, his grip on my hand tightening briefly.

"I think she approves.”

I rolled my eyes, but the corner of my lips twitched. I didn’t argue.

The cabin door creaked as we stepped inside, the warm air wrapping around us, scented with the lingering traces of dried herbs and candle wax.

Malakai shut the door behind us, sealing us in this small, private world of our own. I turned to face him, suddenly too aware of how close we were, of how different things felt now. The weight of everything that had happened, everything we had shared, settled over me like a slow-burning flame.

He smiled, something softer than his usual smirk, his violet eyes warm, steady. He reached out, brushing his knuckles along my cheek, tracing a path down to my jaw.

"Get some rest, Nix.”

I hesitated.

Rest. As if sleep could come so easily now without him at my side. As if the memory of his hands on me, his lips against mine, the way he had unraveled me under his touch, could be forgotten in the space of a single night.

I didn’t want to be alone.

Not after everything. Not after him.

I never wanted to sleep cold and alone ever again.

Swallowing hard, I said nothing—just took his hand and led him toward the bed.

He didn’t ask. He didn’t push.

He just followed.

I pulled back the covers and slid beneath them, shivering slightly from something that had nothing to do with the night air. Malakai moved with a quiet ease, settling in beside me as if he had always belonged there, as if the space next to me had always been meant for him.

His warmth seeped into me the moment he pulled me against his chest. I exhaled, relaxing into the solid press of his body, into the steady rhythm of his breathing. His arm curled around my waist, his fingers tracing slow, absent-minded lines along my arms.

I swallowed, my throat suddenly tight.

"You’re not going to vanish when I wake up, are you?”

His grip on me tightened. “Never.”

The word was quiet but unshakable, full of a certainty I had never let myself believe in before.

I pressed my forehead against his collarbone, closing my eyes. His scent—fir needles and spearmint, familiar and grounding—wrapped around me, soothing something deep and aching inside my chest. I wanted to hold onto this. To hold onto him.

Malakai pressed a lingering kiss to the top of my head, his lips warm and soft against my hair.

"Sleep, love,”

he murmured.

"I’ll be here when you wake.”