Page 46 of Tempest Blazing
Kane watched me carefully, his blue-violet eyes tracking my reactions. Not clinical now, but... concerned. Like he was ready to take the vial away if something went wrong, ready to catch me if I fell.
I wanted to ask so many things. Why he'd pulled away after that kiss. Why he was here now, taking care of me with such careful precision. What had hurt him badly enough that he knew healing potions this intimately. Whether the emotional numbing had helped, or if it had just made the loneliness worse.
"Better?" he asked after I'd managed about half the potion.
"Getting there." The warmth was spreading down my arms now, easing the ache in my shoulders. My limbs did feel heavier, but in a relaxed way, like sinking into a warm bath. "Thank you."
He nodded, but didn't move to leave. Instead, he sat there in the growing twilight, his hands clasped loosely in his lap, his expression thoughtful.
I finished the rest of the potion in silence, feeling the last of the pain recede from my body. The nausea hit right on schedule, but Kane's breathing technique worked—slow, measured counts until it passed. When I looked up, he was still watching me with that careful attention.
The silence stretched between us, heavy with things unsaid. I could feel Kane's presence beside me, solid and warm in the growing darkness of my room. The healing potion had done its work—my body felt loose and relaxed, the pain reduced to a distant ache—but my mind was still spinning with questions.
Finally, I couldn't hold them back anymore.
"What were you doing there?" My voice came out rougher than I intended, still raw from earlier, but steady enough.
Kane didn't flinch. Didn't deflect or change the subject like I'd half-expected. Instead, he shifted slightly on the edge of the bed, his hands still clasped in his lap, and looked at me directly.
"I've been working to shut down the fighting ring for a long time," he said simply. "It was my other project. The one I didn't talk about."
The words clicked into place with an almost audible snap. That conversation weeks ago, when he'd mentioned having other responsibilities, other missions that pulled at his attention. I'd assumed it was Guild business, something political and distant. Not... this.
"How long?" I asked.
"Since I rescued Mason and Kali." His jaw tightened slightly. "Two years."
Two years. Two years of planning, of careful strategy, of working alone to dismantle something that had hurt people he cared about. The scope of it made my chest tighten.
"So you should be relieved," I said quietly, studying his profile in the dim light. "Mission accomplished. The ring's collapsing."
But even as I said it, I could see he wasn't. His jaw was tight, his blue-violet eyes distant and troubled. There was no satisfaction in his expression, no sense of victory. Just... something that looked almost like grief.
"You're not okay," I observed, not making it a question.
Kane was quiet for a long moment, his gaze fixed on something I couldn't see. When he finally spoke, his voice was carefully controlled, but I caught the edge of something raw underneath.
"I used to think it was simple," Kane said finally, his voice so quiet I had to lean forward to catch it. "Duty versus personal desire. Logic versus emotion. There was always a clear answer if you just... calculated correctly."
He paused, his fingers flexing against his thighs. In the dim light filtering through my window, I could see the tension in his shoulders, the way he held himself like he was bracing for impact.
"But it's not clean, is it?" The words came out rougher now, like they were being pulled from somewhere deep. "Sometimes saving lives means letting someone you care about suffer. Sometimes the strategic choice means watching people you..." He stopped, swallowed hard. "Watching them get hurt."
My chest tightened. He wasn't just talking about the mission in general terms. He was talking about me. About sitting here, watching me try to heal from injuries I'd sustained while he made his calculated decisions from a distance.
The silence stretched between us, heavy with the weight of what he wasn't quite saying. I could see it in the way his jaw worked, the careful control he was maintaining over his expression. Kane, who always had answers, who could strategize his way through any problem—sitting here admitting that sometimes there weren't good choices. Just necessary ones.
"You probably made the best choice you could," I said gently, meaning it. The words felt inadequate, but they were true. I'd seen enough of Kane's mind to know he didn't make decisions lightly. Every angle calculated, every consequence weighed.
He looked at me then, really looked at me, and something in his carefully controlled expression shifted. Not breaking—Kane's control ran too deep for that—but bending, like metal under pressure.
"Isn't that why you're in here moping?" he asked, his voice carrying an edge that wasn't quite bitter but wasn't gentle either. "Because sometimes the best choice doesn't feel like the right one in the end."
The words hit like a physical blow, knocking the breath from my lungs. Because he was right. Completely, devastatingly right. I'd been sitting here drowning in guilt and shame, replaying every choice I'd made. Wondering if I could have done something different, something better.
I stared at him, feeling something crack open in my chest. The careful walls I'd built around my shame, my self-doubt—they crumbled under the weight of his observation. Kane had stripped away every excuse, every deflection, and laid bare the truth I'd been avoiding.
"That's not the same thing," I said weakly, but even I could hear how hollow it sounded.
