Page 187 of Emylia

“Why?” He advanced, slow and predatory. “Because you’re scared of what happens when you stop holding back?”

I knew he wasn’t talking about magik. Or fighting.

He was talking aboutus.

About my refusal to let myself be with both of them.

I launched a blast of freezing wind. He sidestepped, fluid as always, and slipped in behind me. His hand grazed my hip—unintentional. Maybe. Or maybe not.

I spun, fist aiming for his jaw. He caught my wrist mid-air. The contact was electric. Obliterating. My heart shattered into tiny, splintering pieces on impact.

“Come on,” he said, voice low and taunting. “Let her out. The girl who burned through twenty guards. The girl who nearly drowned a man in her grief. Let meseeher.”

“I’m not her,” I growled, rage barely hidden.

“Yes, you are.” He twisted, dragging me into a hold. “I just have to remind you.”

My back slammed into his chest, arms pinned. I could feel every inch of him pressed to me—his breath hot against my neck, his heartbeat maddeningly steady against my spine.

“I could drop you,” I rasped.

“Then do it.”

Cold surged from my skin, crackling through the space between us. He hissed, stepping back. Steam rose where the frost had kissed him.

We circled.

“You cheated,” he growled.

“You said unleash the unapologetic me.” I shot back without remorse.

“And what if your power dries up? What if you can’t use magik—what then? Are you just going to give up?”

“No,” I snarled, teeth bared.

“Then again,” he said, voice sharp as a blade. “This time,no cheating.”

He lunged. I dodged.

We collided, broke apart. Again and again. Our bodies locked, twisted, rolled across the frost-slick field.

I didn’t know when it stopped being combat.

All I knew was that I ended up tangled around him—my thigh hooked over his hip, my palm pressed to the place where coldfire had once marked his skin.

We were both breathing hard. My body ached from impact. My mind from everything else.

“Why do you keep doing this?” I whispered. “Why do you keep pushing me?”

“Because you’re the only thing in this world that makes me feel alive.” His voice was ragged. Honest.Wrecked. “And like hell I’m going to give that up without a fight.”

My fingers curled against his chest.

“And maybe,” he added, quieter now, “because I want you to push back. Because I want to know if the power in you… is strong enough to claim me.”

He leaned in—forehead nearly brushing mine.

Every line of him pulled taut, like one wrong breath would snap him in half.

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