Page 5 of Burning Her Beautiful
My name on his lips comes softer than I expect, yet the demand remains. I breathe through the pull in my chest, then share. I recount the demon warriors emerging from pines, the smell of cracked sap, the cries of my companions, Lys’s terrified whisper, “Run.” I describe how the leader blasted our fire to ash with a single gesture, how another demon struck me when I tried to protect Lys. I speak of the march into canyons glowing with ghost light and the rise into storm cloud.
His face remains composed, but his fingers curl against knee leather when I mention the slap, the chain that cut Lys’s ankles. The gesture vanishes quickly, yet I mark it. He listens until words thin.
“You fought,” he comments.
“Briefly.”
“Few mortals dare,” he says, as though summarizing a ledger. Yet admiration flickers.
“I dared because I had nothing left to lose.”
“Now you do,” he counters, gaze boring into mine.
I swallow. “I will not beg.”
He leans forward. “Begging bores me. Stand tall or fall. I value spirit.” His words hum across the space, stirring embers of pride and something hotter.
A pause stretches while the fire spits resin. He rises smoothly, sets my empty wine cup beside its twin. “You will rest now. Dawn approaches.”
I stand as well. “You came to watch me eat and relive nightmares.”
“No.” He stops a breath away. Our heights near equal; his horns tip past my hairline, yet he inclines slightly so we regard each other eye level. “I came to measure your will. Tomorrow you face a god’s gaze. Weak will shatters.”
I struggle not to lean back. “If I shatter, the blame belongs to the hammer.”
“True.” His lips curve, faint, almost rueful. The flicker of softness unnerves me more than menace. “Yet I suspect you are temperate steel.”
We stand within reach, neither moving. My heartbeat shifts tempo. The scent of him—smoke, cedar, some underlying metallic tang—wraps around senses. His chest rises, slow and deep, as though drawing me in through scent alone.
He speaks on next exhale, voice husk low. “Go to the balcony.”
The order surprises me. I obey, partly curiosity, partly the tug of intuition that the storm holds answers. When night wind catches my braid it slaps damp strands against neck. He follows, stopping beside me at the railing. The abyss below seethes with cloud rivers lit by intermittent lightning. He grips the stone ledge, forearms tensing.
“Many fear the drop,” he says.
“Only fools do not.”
“Step onto the rail.”
I flinch. “You jest.”
“I will not let you fall.” He extends one hand, palm up. “Trust, Iliana.”
I search his face. Shadows pool under brows, but his eyes gleam sincere. I climb, knees trembling. One bare foot meets chilled stone, then the other. Wind buffets. His fingers encircle my wrist, steady. When lightning flashes, runes glow through his grip, illuminating our joined skin.
“Close your eyes,” he says.
I do. He instructs me to breathe slow, to taste ozone on each inhale. Wind roars, cloak snapping behind me, braid whipping. My balance wavers but his hold anchors. “Feel the storm,” he murmurs. “It lives yet does not destroy you. That is power of will.”
Heat coils upward from my stomach to chest, across collarbones, then blooms behind closed lids as golden swirl. I stand taller. He guides me down, stepping off the rail onto balcony tiles. My feet touch stone, knees steady now.
I open eyes. He watches, expression unreadable. “You did not flinch,” he says softly. “Hold that strength tomorrow.”
I nod once, throat thick. “Thank you.”
His thumb traces over the pulse point at my wrist before letting go. “Rest.” He leads me back inside, gestures toward the bed of cushions. I sink, still humming with storm energy. He crosses to the door. At the threshold he pauses.
“One more thing.” He turns halfway, hair pulled back into a warrior’s knot, horns gleaming. “If fear whispers,” he says, “hum.” A faint smile touches his mouth. “I like the sound.”
