Page 67 of Scorch

I look away and don’t respond.

“What is it? Why the hesitation?”

Why do I feel so much more confident with him than I’ve ever felt before? Like he knows me, really, truly knows me.

I wonder if making love to one another the way we have—the way he tears down my walls and splits me wide open, making me feel vulnerable and exposed—is why I feel like finally, for the first time in my life, I can actually be myself.

“Lydia. What is it?”

“I was always told that something was wrong with me. That I was broken. That I should avoid anything that had to do with fire…”

I look away from him, the weight of his gaze too much to bear. “It's troubling to me that you know so much about me.”

“Accept it. I've been looking for a very, very long time. I've always been obsessed with you, Lydia. That might frighten you, but I don't want it to because I am going to protect you.” He strokes my hair down the length of my back. I step closer to him. “You're going to be my wife.”

Something surges within me, a confusing mix of fear and excitement. He gets me. It feels like he really gets me. A part of me is freaked out, but another part of me feels… relief.

“So what do you know about me? What do you know about my past?”

“I know that you were sent to school away from home because you were convicted of arson,” he says, holding my gaze without fear or hesitation. “I know that you were labeled a pyromaniac, and people feared you. But I know you aren’t someone to be feared. I suspect you’re a victim of being labeled and misunderstood.”

My breathing hitches in my throat. It scares me that he knows me so well.

“Listen. I’ve noticed your fascination with fire, Lydia. I built this for you—a place where you can indulge in your passions safely. Fire can be beautiful and controlled. It doesn't have to be destructive.” He reaches for me, cupping my jaw in the palm of his hand. “I like to think that we're alike in this way.”

“How?” I swallow hard, trying to keep my voice steady.

“We're both attracted to fire, baby.”

He bends and captures my mouth in a kiss. My toes curl at the feel of his warm mouth on mine, need thrumming through my body. I feel alive, energized. I feel like I’ve fallen out of my mind and fully into my body, every vibrating, living cell of being.

When he pulls away, a faint smile touches his lips.

“Go ahead, Lydia. Do it.”

Taking my hand, he leads me to sit next to the fire pit. He strikes a match and holds a candle up to me, the scent of warm vanilla toffee filling the air around us. His voice hardens, his words a command. “Do it.”

My hands tremble as I light the match, but excitement courses through me at the first lick of flame. The addictive smell of the lit match fills my senses. I light the candle and watch it burn, the flame dancing between us.

I want more. I lick my lips and swallow. “Give me another one.”

“Say please,” he teases.

“Please, Viktor,” I breathe, holding my hand out.

“Remember,” Viktor says as he lifts another candle from the large array before us, this one in a light-pink matte, smelling faintly of strawberries. “There's a difference between fascination and compulsion, Lydia. Pyromania is an uncontrollable urge to set destructive fires. But here, you can explore that fascination without harm. Control is the key.”

I light another match and shake my head, adrenaline coursing through me at the beautiful way the light flickers in the dark.

“Control? I've never felt like I had control over it. It just… took over.”

“Really? When was the last time you set a fire? A real fire, not a candle or something small.”

“It's been a long time.” I lower my voice, ashamed. “I've learned to suppress my primal urges. The need to burn things, to consume everything when I'm stressed and anxious. I’m better now.”

“Maybe you don’t need to get better. If you were a real pyromaniac, you wouldn't have been able to do that.” He lifts up a beautiful cylinder box of long, thick matches. “Light them. Throw them in the fire pit.”

I sit beside a camping chair in front of the fire, take out one of the long matches, and strike it. I watch it lick up the thin wood until it almost reaches my fingers before I toss it into the pit. I do it again and again, watching the flame with exhilaration and the slightest hint of fear.

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