38. Morgan

Blaze doesn’t speakas we walk toward the crystal palace.

It’s… alarming.

I know he’s angry. But I thought he’d have questions for me, too. That he’d want to know more about my magic. And maybe—just maybe—that he’d start to come around.

It doesn’t feel like that’s happening now.

Or ever.

“You know,” I finally mutter. “You could at least thank me for saving our lives in the storm.”

“Thank you for saving our lives in the storm,” he says, his voice dead and empty.

Okay. Message received.

He really doesn’t want to talk to me.

Officially giving up, I let the silence wrap around us again.

As we approach the crystal palace, I stop to stare up at it in awe. It’s breathtaking. Its spires are sharp and gleaming, like icicles captured in the freeze of time. They reflect the moonlight, sparkling with magic, pulsing with an energy that I can feel from all the way down here.

I wish I could see what it looks like inside.

But the palace is a landmark on our path—not our destination.

“Come on,” Blaze says, as if he’s not in awe of the palace in the slightest. “We’re questing—not sight-seeing.”

His words sting, but I don’t bother with a reply. It’s not worth it.

Instead, we continue around the bend. And when the valley finally opens, the sight that greets us is nothing short of magical.

A rose garden, each flower a delicate work of art, cascading in waves down toward the cottage nestled at the far end. The cottage is quaint, with its stone walls covered in thick ivy and smoke billowing from the chimney. And behind the cottage, there’s a thin waterfall that starts at the top of the mountain, flowing down into the lush greenery of the Earth itself.

“We’re here,” I say. “We made it.”

“Clearly.” Blaze huffs and starts making his way down the garden’s spiral path. He doesn’t even stop to make sure I’m following.

My heart twists with pain, but of course, I make my way down behind him. We have no time to waste.

It’s not long before the scent of the roses hits me. Their perfume is thick, and it fills my senses, making my head feel light and dizzy. It’s not merely sweet—it’s intoxicating. It seeps into me, stirring the emotions from last night. The ones I’ve been trying since this morning to forget.

Blaze slows as he walks, allowing me to catch up.

His jaw is clenched, his eyes forward. He’s fighting it, but I can see the struggle in the tightness of his shoulders, the quickness of his breath.

“The roses,” I say, the scent wrapping tighter around us. “They’re not just for decoration, are they?”

When he turns his eyes to mine, there’s a fire in them that mirrors the hungry way he looked at me last night. “They’re enchanting,” he confirms. “Designed to elicit... excitement.”

Excitement.

The kind that consumed us in the tent last night.

“Is it working?” The question is out before I can stop it.

“What do you think?”

We’ve stopped walking now, and the foot or so of distance between us is electric, the air charged with something wild and uncontrollable.

I should move away.

I shouldn’t let what happened last night happen again. Especially not like this, when his—when our—reactions aren’t our own.

Except that they are our own. Beneath the secrets and lies, the attraction between us has been real ever since he appeared in front of me in that hostel and plopped the book down onto the table.

And so, it feels inevitable when he reaches for me, his hands framing my face, our lips meeting with a fiery passion that’s both fierce and desperate. As wild as a turbulent sea crashing against the rocks in a dangerous storm.

Before long, his touch is everywhere, insistent and searching.

I answer with equal fervor, my own hands roaming across the hard planes of his body.

In less than a minute, the anger and tension between us transforms into a different kind of battle—one of need against need, desire against desire.

One impossible to resist.

One we’re not trying to resist.

Time loses meaning. The rest of the world falls away, leaving only the urgency of our joined breaths, the heat of our bodies, and the beating of our hearts.

I want to remember this moment. Always.

So, as he lowers me to the ground, I reach for one of the roses. A pink one in perfect bloom—they’re all in perfect bloom—that calls to me more than the others.

The closer I get to it, the more I want it.

But Blaze’s hand shoots out, catching my wrist in an iron grip. “Don’t,” he snaps, the intensity in his voice startling me into stillness.

“Why not?”

“Because I just remembered a legend about these roses. The Alpine King guards them fiercely. It’s said he’ll chop off the hands and feet of anyone who tries to take one.”

My gaze remains locked on the rose as it continues to tempt me.

But the hand I’m using to try to pluck it?

I’d rather have that than the flower.

Still, Blaze’s grip on my wrist is unyielding, and when I look up into his eyes, the sunbursts in them swirl with fervent urgency.

A need.

For me.

Every bone in my body wants to lean forward and kiss him again.

“Morgan,” he says, his voice strained. “We can’t. This isn’t real.”

“It’s real,” I insist, and from the way he’s looking at me—like he wants to pin me down and claim me again on the spot—I know he’s a heartbeat away from giving in.

The air pulses between us, watching, waiting for the inevitable to happen.

His grip around my wrist tightens, to the point where it starts to hurt.

“It’s a spell. It doesn’t change what you did,” he says, and he releases his hold on me, pushing me down and forcing himself to stand.

Shock shoots through me when I hit the ground, even though I wasn’t far away from it to start.

Staring up at him from here, his rejection claws at my heart, tears welling in my eyes.

“Fire travel,” he says, his command as much of a plea as it is an order. “To the bottom of the garden. Now.”

“Blaze,” I say, his name getting stuck in my throat. “I can’t just leave you here.”

“I can get down alone,” he says. “It’s not far. And when I see you at the bottom, all I’ll be able to focus on is getting there, back to you.”

All goes silent as he waits for my reaction. And the way he’s looking at me—as if I’m the most precious thing in his world—makes me want to fight what he’s saying and stay here with him forever.

Once we’re out of this rose garden, will he ever look at me this way again? Or will he return to hating me for the secrets I kept?

Probably the latter.

And then, the wind picks up again.

Take him out now, it says. He’s weak and vulnerable because of the rose garden. It’s the perfect time to strike—before he goes back to being so defensive around you. To hating you.

The whispers caress my skin, sinking into my soul and urging me to believe its words.

The dagger in my weapons belt is so close.

I could kiss him again. Then I could catch him by surprise by stabbing him before he realizes what’s happening.

Yes, the wind urges. Do it.

No, I think. Stop.

And then I call on my fire, let it erupt around me, and disappear into the flames.