Page 29 of Wrongfully Magicked
I focus on my breathing—in one, two, three then out one, two, three.
I wait for Soren to leap away and curse at me, wait for his screams of pain as my fire ignites and eats away his flesh. I usually have more control, but something about him calls to the embers that burn in my soul.
Almost like they are seeking him out.
Only the big lug doesn’t retreat. In fact, he does the opposite—he leans in closer, chuckling darkly in my ear, the deliciousrumble sending shivers down my spine. Fury ignites inside me at his cavalier attitude regarding his safety, and my eyes snap open.
How dare he put himself in danger!
I whirl in the tight space and glare up at the stupid man.
I allow fire to spark inside me just enough for my brown eyes to glow amber, tiny specks of red beginning to shimmer in their depths. Most people would have the common sense to run, but the asshole’s grin only spreads. He leans in closer, pinning me to the door, and I swear his cock is even harder and heavier as it presses insistently against my stomach.
My breath catches in my lungs at his sheer masculinity. My breasts are heavy and aching, and my core clenches in need.
Bad pussy, I chide, but it does no good.
The bitch always had a mind of its own.
“Kitten, you couldn’t hurt me even if you tried.” The rumble of Soren’s low voice practically vibrates my against clit, and I bite my lip to stifle a groan.
“I’m trying my best not to fry you, you idiot.” I’m panting now as the fire under my skin continues to rage. I shove at his chest, trying to get the asshat to move, but the fucker doesn’t budge. On the third shove, I yank my fingers back when the tips start to glow like hot coals. I curl my hands into fists, but my damn breathing exercises do nothing to cool the growing heat.
It’s like he’s the match, and I’m the tinder, ready to burn at his touch.
“Watch.” Soren leans back slightly, bringing his fist between us. He turns his wrist, then opens his hand, and the most gorgeous blue flame simmers to life. As I watch, it dances and twists, changing until it’s a white and blue lotus flower.
The center of the bud glows white, the petals slowly unfurling. Tiny veins stretch through the petals and pulse like miniature flames licking up the outsides. The closer the flames are to the edges, the darker the blue, and I can only stare in awe.
I’m not aware of reaching out until my fingers hover over the stunning creation. I glance up, silently seeking permission, and he nods. When my fingers lightly brush a petal, I almost expect to be burned, but the flower feels like silk.
The blue flame wavers, then bright reds and pinks slowly skim down the petals, the three colors blending in a beautiful dance. My heart feels full at the beauty, and the backs of my eyes sting.
All my life, I was taught that the ability to use fire is a curse, that those who have it deserve to be punished for their wicked ways.
Never in my wildest dreams did I think it could be so beautiful.
“How did you do that?” My voice is hushed with awe, afraid that if I speak louder, I might disrupt the magic.
“Not me—us.” He flicks his fingers, and the flower evaporates in a shower of cinders, then falls to the ground like ash. “I’m a hellspawn. While most of us can withstand fire, my beast allows me to harness it. Your little flames won’t hurt me, not unless you infuse your fire with the command to harm, and even then, it’s doubtful.”
My mind is completely blown, and I’m barely able to string two thoughts together. “Hellspawn?”
His eyes dim a little, his expression shutters, and tension creeps into his wide shoulders. “I’m a hellhound.”
He stares down at me and waits. He’s so still that I’m not even sure he’s breathing. The silver in his eyes swirl, like his beast is pushing forward, and tension practically shimmers in the air.
My reaction is important to him for some reason. Some people say that words can’t hurt, but that’s a fucking lie. Hateful words can destroy a person’s soul if they are allowed to fester.
I’ve done my best not to listen to my family, but I bear the scars from their abuse, both physically and mentally.
As I gaze up at Soren, my gaze skims over his masculine features. His brows are heavy, his face broad, his jaws strong and square. Tiny nicks and faded scars decorate his face and body. He’s not classically handsome, but I find the combination stunning. He doesn’t fuss with his appearance, completely at home in his own body.
He is unapologetically Soren, and I like that he’s not trying to be anything but himself.
“Hellhound, huh?” As I scan him from head to toe, he stands straighter, his shoulders going back, and his chest puffs out. I nod, then give a hum of approval.
Excitement pings through me as I imagine what his beast must look like. My mind immediately conjures the image of a giant, wolf-like creature on fire, lava flowing through his veins, and my flames spark with interest. The beast stands tall and confident, the flames flaring bright under my gaze, and a smile curls my lips at his proud bearing. “Fierce. I like it. Hellhound suits you.”
