Page 81 of Of Flames and Fallacies

“You can call me Kat.”

After dinner I slip into my room, closing my door behind me, and I freeze. Someone has been in my room. Laying atop my desk is a bundle of rich purple flowers, strikingly colorful in the muddy palette of my room. Their heavy floral scent wafts over me, and I absent-mindedly brush my thumb over a petal.

Alliums.

Only one person knows they’re my favorite flowers.

I blush at the thought of Cole stealing some moments away from his busy captain schedule to pick them for me. A giddy smile tightens my cheeks, and I bite into my lip.

A folded piece of paper is tucked into the flower’s stems. I pull it out, reading the note:

What you are to me, I may never be able to justify in the significance of words. But you are, always have been and always will be, my beginning and my end. And every breath of my existence in between.

My chest swells and bursts, each careful curve of Cole’s handwriting carving his name into the depths of my heart.

Once it’s dark enough, and the chatter of the squad around the campfire dies down outside, I slip off to Cole’s room, eager to thank him for such a thoughtful gesture before I head out to see Daeja.

Something has me hesitating at his door, but I push past it and tap against the wood. The door swings open, Cole’s facesoftening as he sees me. His ruffled red hair is swept in a handsome disaster across his brow, his shirt uncharacteristically wrinkled. The top few buttons of his tunic are undone, exposing part of his deeply muscled chest. I avert my eyes before I blush. He opens the door wider to let me in and shuts it softly behind me after I enter.

The soft glow of a candle warms his room, scattering exaggerated shadows across the floor. I tear my focus away from the flame, unease bubbling under my skin. Cole leans back against his door, watching me.

He isn’t wearing shoes. In fact, he isn’t wearing much at all. His belt is missing, along with the many layers of attire he normally wears. The lack of formality slams into my heart, reminding me of the humble, shy boy I met all those years ago.

“Sorry, were you sleeping?” I murmur.

He shakes his head. “No, just got back from patrol. Are you okay?”

He knows me all too well if he’s already picking up on how nervous I am. From the fire. I think. I swallow as he ghosts toward me and stops a step away from me. Clenching and unclenching my fists, I try to calm my frenzied anxiety at the thought of a live fire dancing freely behind me.

He tries once more, concern furrowing his eyebrow. “What’s wrong?”

When I hesitate to answer, he reaches forward and grabs my hand. My palms are slick when he squeezes his hand around mine.

“I haven’t uhh….” My gaze darts over to the candle, and while it’s a split second movement, he follows it.

I swallow hard. It sounds so silly saying it out loud. A fuckingcandlemakes me nervous,of all things. Preposterous and pathetic, and yet, he crumbles every wall of defense I have with the soft caress of his calloused fingers.

“Since Hornwood, fire makes me nervous,” I finally whisper.

“I can fix that,” he says softly. Dropping my hand, he strides over to the candle and blows it out in a single breath.

Within a few blinks, my vision adjusts to the scattered light seeping through the door frame.

He returns to me, stopping a breath’s distance away. “When I was young I used to be scared of fire, too. It didn’t serve my father well, considering he expected me to assist him in the forge. He taught me fire can destroy, but it can also do other things. It can light our darkness in the night. It can meld things together, making them stronger than ever.”

My gaze skips to his mother’s metal ring nestled in the crevice of his chest. “Why did you leave me those flowers, Cole?”

His throat bobs. He’s still not close enough, his body rigid with tension. “Because I wanted to remind you how much you mean to me.”

A stupid smile rips across my face, despite my every effort to hide it.

A spark of heated electricity fills the air between us, and it’s only a matter of time before I’m struck. I make the first move, gliding toward him, and weave my fingers into his.

He shakes his head, flinching. “Kat, we shouldn’t…”

“We shouldn’t…what?” I ask innocently, pulling our intertwined hands to rest on my chest so he can feel how much my heart races for him. How much it calls for him. Desperation overrides my pride for the familiar intimacy we once had. I’m aching for his delicate touch and melting into a puddle of buzzing and burning desire. I long for his hands on me, tangled in my hair, his lips whispering against mine. Gods, the way he’d say my name.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he says, nearly breathless.

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