Page 100 of Wings of Ash & Flame
With one swift motion, she wrapped her legs around his and rolled, putting Dawson on his back. She straddled his stomach, pinning his arms overhead. His eyes gleamed with invitation, daring her to take what she wanted. She felt the rise and fall of his chest against hers—the staccato of his heartbeat.
Twisting his hands in her grip, he interlaced their fingers, anchoring himself until he rolled them again.
“Not fair,” she gasped, her tongue flicking out to wet her lips.
His gaze tracked the movement, lingering as if to commit it to memory. His grip tightened. “War isn’t fair, Firework. Life isn’t fair. You’d do well to remember that.” He rolled off her, offering a hand.
“Stop calling me that,” Alaire grumbled, popping to her feet and brushing past him.
“Fireworks explode spectacularly, then fizzle into smoke and debris. Sound familiar? Learn to manage your emotions instead of letting them control you.”
Her teeth clenched as his words ricocheted through her.
She spun on her heel, braid whipping over her shoulder. “Manage my emotions? Try looking in the mirror! You think that’s my problem? I’m showing up, doing your stupid drills. I’m here. What else do you want from me?”
“Discipline,” he answered, skirting the mat’s edge as his gaze flicked to the wall of weapons. “Restraint. You’re careless and volatile. In war, that gets people killed.” His eyes hardened as they swept over her.
Her chest tightened, but she refused to flinch. “Find someone else to train—someone who fits your perfect mold.”
“You think I want to be here?” he bit out. “You think this is how I want to spend my days—dragging you through maneuvers I can do with my eyes closed while you fight me every step?”
“I didn’t ask for this,” she shot back, voice rising. “To be shoved into a world with rules I don’t know, training for trials that no one bothers to explain!”
“No one’s going to explain anything to you, Alaire. Not here, not anywhere. No one will hold your hand or make this easy. You’re half-fae. You’re a queen. Start acting like it.”
“A queen of what, exactly?” Her laugh was bitter, hollow. “There’s nothing left. Everything,everyone, burned to ash.”
Her voice cracked on the last word, and she hated how small it made her sound. He heard it—saw it. For one unguarded moment, his expression softened before hardening again.
“That doesn’t meanyouare nothing,” Dawson replied, picking up his discarded sword. “And it doesn’t mean you get to throw yourself into the inferno again and again because you don’t know how else to process your pain.”
She swallowed hard, throat tight. But instead of answering, she struck—like a cornered animal. Without warning, she lunged, letting anger take the reins. No technique, no strategy. Just raw desperation. Her fists flew toward his chest.
Dawson was faster. In one fluid motion, he caught her wrists and spun her, slamming her back against the weapons wall. Her arms were pinned above her head in his iron grip, his body pressed against hers, trapping her completely. His chest rose and fell against hers; the hard length of him molded to her curves.
She could feel his heartbeat matching her own frantic rhythm. Alaire struggled, but it only pressed them closer, her body betraying her with a rush of heat that had nothing to do with anger.
“There it is,” he crooned. “That spark of fire. Now, if only you knew what to do with it.”
She yanked free. “I know exactly what to do with it.” Her hands were clammy. He’d seen straight through her.
“Do you?” he asked, one dark brow arched. “Because all I see is someone so furious they can’t think.”
“You don’t know a damn thing about me,” she retorted, shaking.
“And you don’t know a damn thing about what it takes to lead,” Dawson countered. “To carry a title you didn’t ask for and can’t give up. You think this is about what you’ve been through? It’s not. It’s about what comes next. And right now, you can’t see past your own pain.”
“And what about you? You think you’re so noble, so perfect. Doesn’t it get exhausting pretending you’ve got it all together?”
He stepped closer. “Every. Damn. Day.” He ran a hand through his hair. “But I don’t have the luxury of wallowing. I can’t stop. People are counting on me. That’s what being a leader is.”
The rawness of his words knocked the breath out of her, her anger faltering. “I didn’t?—”
“Yes, you did,” he cut in sharply. “You think you’re the only one who’s lost something? Open your eyes. You’re not the only one hurting.”
He turned and walked away, shoulders rigid, steps purposeful—as if staying a moment longer would break him.
Her own shoulders sagged as the fight drained from her.
