“Are you sure?”
“Trust me.”
I nod. Okay. I can do this.
Don’t know why I’m going to, but… I can do this.
Taking a deep breath, I fold my hand into a fist before extending my pointer finger. And then I hesitate.
“Do it, Elle.”
I exhale and, in a burst of nervous energy, I shove my whole damn finger in the flame.
I expect it to hurt. It should hurt. It’s fucking fire!
But it doesn’t. It actually tickles a bit, licking at the side of my finger.
After a few seconds, I draw my finger back, marveling at it. No burn. No pain. No heat. Just my regular, everyday, ordinary finger.
“I can’t believe I just did that.”
“You did.” He grins. “I knew you could.”
It’s the smile that does it. Before I know it, I’m slammed with an attraction I don’t understand—that I definitely shouldn’t be feeling—and I can’t keep from staring at Rys.
Now, I always thought he was pretty. Every single fae male in this place is absolutely gorgeous. It’s kind of in the job description, you know? Be cruel, be cold, be heartless, be gorgeous.
I just… I don’t think I realized how enticing this particular male is until this exact moment.
It’s Rys who breaks the stare. With a frown, he lifts his own finger, reaching up as if to trace the jagged line down his cheek.
Shit. He totally thinks I’m staring at his scar, doesn’t he?
I’ve gotten used to it. It’s there, but it’s just part of him. I actually kind of like it, if only because—as crazy as it sounds—it makes him seem a little bit human. Not that he would agree with me. The way his whole face closes off is a big, honking clue that his scar is a touchy subject.
So what do I do?
Ask him about it, of course.
“How did you get it?”
“The fire will respond to you now,” he says, purposely avoiding my question. His voice goes gruff, the cajoling lilt vanishing now that he doesn’t need to talk me into doing something as crazy as touching fire. “Hide it. You don’t want the guards to catch you with it. I might not always be there to protect you.”
“Protect me? What do you mean—”
“Shh.”
I blink. “Did you just shh me?”
“Yes. Hush.”
“Rys—”
He shrugs and, after pointedly turning away from me, he crosses the cell. “Hush,” he tells me. “I’m using the facilities. Don’t forget what I said.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
Rys stops, one tanned hand bracing against the door to the shower box. Facilities, Rys called it.