The Name That Burns
~KAI~
Iuncross my legs.
Then cross them again—the opposite configuration this time, left over right instead of right over left—because apparently my body can't decide what to do while my brain is busy processing the absolute clusterfuck that just occurred.
"Did that really happen?"
The question comes out flat. Controlled. The voice I've spent years perfecting—the one that saysI'm in charge, I'm unbothered, nothing can touch me—even when everything inside me is screaming.
That Omega.
That pink-haired, dual-wielding, clearly unhinged Omega who just cut down six armed men like they were training dummies, pressed a blade to my throat, and then sauntered away like she hadn't just committed multiple homicides in under sixty seconds.
She was magnificent.
And that pisses me off more than anything else.
"And why—" I pinch the bridge of my nose, pressing hard enough to hurt, using the pain to ground myself in something other than the scent still clinging to my clothes, "—does she smell like the sweetest aroma of cotton candy that makes me sick?"
It's not a lie.
The scent is making me sick.
Sick with something I refuse to name, acknowledge, or let take root in the cold, dead thing that used to be my heart.
Because I've spent twenty-seven years building walls around that organ, reinforcing them with violence and duty and the understanding that attachments are weaknesses that get people killed.
I don't get to want things.
Don't get to feel things.
Don't get to stand in a forest clearing with the lingering scent of cotton candy and cherry blossoms and imagine what it would be like to have that pressed against my skin.
That's not who you are, the voice of my father echoes in my memory.You're the heir. You're the weapon. You're the one who does what needs to be done, regardless of what it costs.
Blaze can't fight his smirk.
The bastard has never been able to hide his emotions—every thought he has plays across his face like a goddamn theater production, all dramatic expressions and barely contained enthusiasm for whatever chaos is unfolding around him.
He lowers his blades, sliding them back into the concealed sheaths along his forearms with practiced ease.
"First time I've smelled an Omega and actually enjoyed their aroma," he says, and the appreciation in his voice makes something hot and violent coil in my chest. "Not to mention she's a dual wielder." His golden-brown eyes glitter withsomething that looks disturbingly like admiration. "Never met a woman who can out-swordplay me."
"She didn't out-swordplay you," I snap. "You were late."
"Thirty-seven seconds late," Blaze agrees cheerfully. "And in those thirty-seven seconds, she took down six armed men without breaking a sweat. That's not out swordplaying me—that's fuckingart."
The admiration is getting worse.
I can hear it building in his voice, see it sparking in his eyes, feel it radiating off him in waves that make me want to punch something.
"Get your hardened cock out of my face," I growl, "and don't fall in love with a cynical Omega who decided to show off."
Blaze laughs.
The sound is bright, genuine, and completely inappropriate for the situation.
