Chapter 12: She's Fire, and I've Burn for it.
Alervon's Point of View
I don't like people.
They talk too much.
Feel too much.
Need too much.
And girls like Aurielle? They were the worst kind.
All silk and tantrums. All bark and no bite. The kind of girl who thought breaking a nail was trauma and being told "no" was oppression.
Spoiled. Loud. Reckless. A porcelain princess dipped in gold and wrapped in delusion.
And yet…
She's all I've seen since the night I first laid eyes on her.
At the night club.
She shouldn't have been there.
The club was full of humans, reeking of alcohol, sweat, and lust. She stood out the second she walked in, like light in rot. Her beauty was crafted to ruin — blonde hair gleaming under neon haze, hips swaying like she owned the damn building.
I saw the predators watching her.
I saw what he planned.
I could've walked away.
But I didn't.
Not because I cared.
Not because I'm a hero.
Because when she looked up and spat fire into that boy's face — when she rolled her eyes like his existence was beneath her — I felt something shift.
She didn't know fear. She didn't know consequences.
And I hated her for it.
But I still saved her.
And when she strolled into school, surrounded by admirers, the air bent around her.
She was magnetic.
Not the kind that pulled you in gently — the kind that made you question your strength. Like the edge of a blade, so beautiful in the light, you almost forget it was forged to cut.
The boys wanted her.
The girls wanted to be her.
I wanted her to disappear.
She was assigned to my class. To my table. And the gods have a sick sense of humor.
Then at the Cafeteria
The attack wasn't supposed to happen so soon.
I felt it before it struck — the chill in the ether, the crack in the walls of reality. That thing wasn't from this realm.
But she was the only thing I looked for when chaos erupted.
Her eyes wide. Her mouth open. Fragile.
For the first time since I was a child, I felt fear.
Not for myself.
For her.
Why?
I don't save people. I end things. Quickly. Quietly. Efficiently.
But when I saw her stumble back, surrounded, screaming...
I moved before thought could catch up.
She looked at me afterward like I was something to fear.
She was right.
Today – At the library
I told myself I wouldn't speak to her.
That I'd keep my distance.
But she never shuts up.
Even when she's quiet, her presence is loud. She fills a room like wildfire fills a dry forest. Restless. Destructive. Beautiful.
When I heard her muttering my name to herself, chewing at her lip, fidgeting with the corner of her book, I snapped.
"Could you shut up?"
I didn't expect her to whirl on me with that spark in her eye again.
We fought. Of course. That's all we do.
But when I cornered her—when I pinned her between shelves and felt her breath on my skin—I forgot why I hated her.
She looked up at me like she wanted to kill me.
Or kiss me.
And the worst part?
I wanted both.
I told her she was weak. That she hid behind fire because she had nothing else. And I meant every word.
But when she looked at me — lips parted, pupils blown wide — I realized something dangerous.
I was staring at someone who made me feel.
And I've spent my whole life training not to.
Now – In the Silence Between My Thoughts
I'm not supposed to want her.
She's reckless. Entitled. Impossible.
Everything I've ever despised in a person.
But she's also chaos wrapped in beauty. Anger wrapped in loneliness. A cracked crown carried by shaking hands pretending to be strong.
And somehow... I see her.
And that terrifies me.
I can't afford to be distracted. She's a mission. A liability. A spoiled child still convinced the world owes her something.
But I can still feel the shape of her body beneath my hand.
The warmth of her breath on my throat.
And the sick part?
I want to feel it again.
Cassian POV
Cassian
She shouldn't still be in my head.
It's been days. Three and a half, to be exact—not that I'm counting like some pathetic idiot with a crush. I don't do crushes. I do fists. And fire. And getting the hell out of places before people look at me too long.
But there she is.
Every time I close my eyes, I see that rooftop.
Not the sky. Not the scars on my hands.
Her.
The way she looked at me without fear. Like I wasn't some barely-contained hurricane with a bad temper and worse habits. Like I was human.
And worse—she made me laugh.
Me. Laughing. Like some guy in a teen drama with a redemption arc.
It's disgusting.
I don't even know why I walked into the damn library. I never go there. I hate the way it smells like old secrets and dust. But I guess some part of me was… what? Hoping?
Stupid.
And then I saw her.
Auriella.
And him.
Some guy with tattoos that ran drown his arms. He caged her, they were close, too close.
And that pissed me off more than it should've.
I stood behind a shelf, shadowed by tall books and bad intentions, watching the way she looked at him. Like the weight she always carried on her shoulders got a little lighter when he spoke.
It felt like betrayal, even though I had no right to feel anything.
Before I could decide what to do, he stood—too slowly. Like he wanted to stay but had to leave. His fingers brushed her hand as he said something quiet. She didn't pull away.
He walked off.
And I stayed.
I waited a beat. Maybe two.
She was alone now, still standing there, She took a deep breath then she moved to her desk, flipping a page, completely unaware that I was unraveling like some idiot across the room.
Then I moved.
Not fast. Not loud. Just enough for her to feel the shift in the air before I spoke.
Her spine straightened as I stepped out.
Her head turned.
Those eyes.
Every time I see them, it's like the rooftop all over again.
That fire. That goddamn pull.
> I should walk away.
But I didn't.
She blinked, recognition flickering over her face.
I stopped in front of her. Close enough to make her notice. Not close enough to make it obvious.
She tilted her chin, mouth tense, unreadable.
And now it was just the two of us.
No Tattooed guy. No distraction.
Just her and me and all the things I hadn't said.
I didn't speak.
I let my silence do the heavy lifting.
She stared like she was waiting for me to explain what the hell I was doing there.
I didn't.
Instead, I stepped a little closer.
Noticed the way her breathing changed.
She stood, slow and sure, but didn't step back.
That was her first mistake.
I reached up—barely touched her hair. Just moved a strand behind her ear.
My fingers didn't graze her skin.
Didn't have to.
Her lips parted just a little, like she'd stopped thinking for a second. And gods, I wanted to close the space between us.
But I didn't.
I leaned in.
Close enough to smell her.
Close enough to feel her pulse in the air between us.
And then I stopped.
She didn't move. Didn't speak.
And that made it worse.
Because I could see it in her eyes—whatever was burning in me, it was catching in her too.
So I pulled back.
Slow.
Measured.
Controlled.
> "I don't play games," I said, voice low, like it was more for me than her.
Then I walked away.
Not because I wanted to.
But because if I stayed another second, I'd kiss her.
And once I kissed her, I'd never stop.