Page 87 of A Storm of Fire and Ash
Chapter Twenty-One
Zayn
Gods fucking help me.
I tried to give her privacy, gods did I try, but she was in there for too long.
The moment I stepped into that bathing room, the air shifted. Like walking through a storm’s edge—thick with tension and magic, heavy with something I couldn’t name.
And then I saw her.
Elara sat in the tub, knees pulled to her chest, her hair soaked and pulled to one side, hanging in front of her. Her skin glistened in the soft light. She didn’t move.
Her back was fully bare.
She didn’t even hear me walk in. Or perhaps she just didn’t care. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. She just sat there, staring off, steam curling around her like she belonged in some half-remembered dream.
My breath caught.
Not because she was beautiful—gods, she was fucking perfect—but because I felt her. That electric pulse beneath my skin buzzed like a live wire the closer I got. It wasn’t just magic. It was ours. Something ancient and unspoken, waking up in my blood.
And fuck me, she was perfect.
The curve of her spine. The toned lines of her body, her legs, her arms. Power rippled just beneath the surface of her skin like she hadn’t yet realized what she was capable of. Her beauty wasn’t fragile. It was feral. Fae.
Mine.
The thought burned hot through my chest, but I shoved it down.
And then I saw the scars.
My feet stopped moving. My eyes locked on the pale, twisted lines crossing her back—thin, cruel, and deliberate. I knew exactly what they were.
Whip scars. Healed over. But they didn’t fade. Fae skin didn’t scar easily—not unless someone meant to destroy her.
Aymon. When she said his name, I saw red. I wanted to make the motherfucker pay for the marks he put on her. But I understood entirely all too well that Elara wanted that revenge. Needed it. And I’d do anything to help her succeed.
Rage surged so fast I almost reached for my sword. It took everything in me not to turn on my heel, storm down the palace halls, and rip that bastard’s head clean off his shoulders. I would’ve done it. Smiled while I did, and then brought Elara his head.
But I remembered her voice. The fire in it. “The king is mine to kill.” So I swallowed the urge. Bit down on it like a blade between my teeth. Let it settle in my bones like a promise.
No. She deserved to be the one to end him.
And when she did, I’d be there—grinning, laughing, watching as she burned this fucking kingdom to ash.
I took one step closer. My hand reached out, couldn’t help it—just barely brushed the edge of one scar. She didn’t move.
But gods, I did.
Electricity snapped through my fingertips and down my spine, lighting up every nerve. My magic roared in answer to hers, like it recognized her, like it was made for her. I felt more magic coursing through me than ever before. Fire. Earth. Water. Air. I clenched my jaw, blood pounding everywhere it shouldn’t.
I had to get out of there.
Then she stood. She deliberately stood naked in front of me. I wanted to fall to my knees and crawl to her. To worship her. To bend my knee to her.
If I stayed another second—if she so much as looked at me again—I wasn’t going to be able to keep my hands off her. And she deserved more than that. More than some man too weak to stand still in her presence.
So I left. Didn’t say a word.
