Chapter 17 Everything I Want
Everything I Want
C
alista ignores her impulses, fighting to keep her eyes locked anywhere but on me.
We sit at the top of the tiered classroom, with a direct view of the board. But that isn’t what I focus on. Across the room, Azaire is looking at me—I can feel him.
“Calista?” I whisper again, intending to apologize—for the Weapon, the blueprint—all the ways she believes I’ve deceived her. But she keeps staring ahead.
So, I stare ahead as well, though my mind drifts.
Azaire’s been stealing glances momentarily. I’d been focused on Calista, but now that it’s been confirmed she is content to ignore me, I meet his gaze, searching for solace. He smiles. That’s enough for me to get through the rest of class.
By the end, Azaire is waiting for me at the door, his silhouette framed by the afternoon light. Without a word, his fingers curl around mine, warm and steady beneath the barrier of my glove. How I wish this fabric didn’t separate us—that I could feel the pulse of his skin against mine.
How I wish to have what I can never have.
It’s only human to want it.
We step away from the crowded hallway, drifting in the opposite direction of my next class. The world feels quieter here, the noise of school fading behind us.
I glance up at him, voice tentative, “Where are we going?”
He looks at me, smiling. “It’s a beautiful day today.”
“Okay,” I say with a soft laugh, falling beside him as we slip out of the academy halls and into the garden.
The sun presses warmly against my face, bright and high in the sky—an uncommon gift during the school day. Usually, I’m trapped behind classroom windows, watching the world move without me.
I close my eyes against the light, savoring the warmth, trusting Azaire to lead me wherever we’re going.
He moves with ease; I don’t stumble over rocks or trees. The path is smooth, and for a moment, there’s nothing but him.
When his movements stop, I peek my eyes open. Ahead, the lunar lake stretches out, its surface rippling softly in the breeze, silver flecks dancing across the water.
At our feet lies a carefully placed blanket. My heart skips as I take in the spread before me. Native berries, slow-roasted meats, sauces infused with Eunoian herbs—the flavors of my homeworld, brought here by him, for me.
Azaire leans close, his breath warm against my ear. “In case you’re homesick.”
I stare in shock, shaking my head. “How did you—”
“Eudora has a soft spot for me,” he says—the head chef of the school, who is also a Eunoia. That’s how he got all this food.
I sink onto the picnic blanket, the soft fabric folding beneath me. With careful hands, I start assembling a wrap—stacking tender slices of slow-roasted meat with sweet, bursting berries. The scents mingle—smoky, woodsy, and just a hint of something wild.
When I pass the wrap to Azaire, he smiles softly and says, “It’s for you.”
“I’ll make another one.” I pick up his hand, dropping the food in his palm. “I want you to try it.”
He looks down at the wrap in his hand, then back to me. As I nod, he lifts the food to his mouth. I follow just after him.
It isn’t long until most of the food is gone. I’ve missed it. I hardly ate when I visited home last. I didn’t have the stomach for it.
“Next time, I’ll have to get you Neptharian foods,” I offer—food from his homeworld. He’s probably homesick, too.
Azaire chuckles, but it’s devoid of humor. “This is far better than anything I grew up with.”
I glance at him, raising an eyebrow. “You don’t have a favorite dish?”
Warmth blossoms in his chest, as if he’s calling the sun into him.
“There’s a soup—cured cattle, dried rosemary, powdered pumpkin seed, all mixed with water.
My mom would make it when we had the ingredients.
” He frowns and avoids meeting my eyes. His gaze is distant, far off, as if looking into a memory.
“It’s war food, probably impossible to find now.
” He shakes his head, meeting my gaze once more.
“It wasn’t any good, anyhow. I think it’s the memory that I like. ”
I scoot closer to him, taking off my academy jacket beneath the warm sun. “My mom used to make those wraps.” I rest my head on his shoulder, right in the crook of his neck. “It’s the first time I’ve had one in years, too.”
I decide I’ll give to him what he gave to me: a piece of his mother, gifted in flavor. I’ll find those rare ingredients and make that soup, the same way he found Ma’s ingredients.
Before this, I hadn’t known his mom was dead.
It isn’t uncommon to have a dead parent here.
Most of the students have parents who are either high-ranking in the military or government.
Those with military parents are often the ones who end up orphaned.
If their parents weren’t the muscle, they were likely high up in the government—which made them prime targets for torture.
While there are fewer casualties among them, they still exist; though the fighting mostly stopped after the end of the Neptharian War, it hasn’t completely gone away.
Azaire’s gaze shifts, landing on the scars that mar my arms. I can feel the question coming before it leaves his lips. For a moment, I think about reaching for my jacket, hoping to close off the conversation before it goes any further.
But I don’t want to.
“What happened?”
I meet his eyes, not sure how to answer. Little light marks cover my skin, remnants of the thorns that have grown there over time—thorns I’ve pulled out, each one leaving a trace. Little reminders of the things I cannot have.
“Power and adolescence,” I whisper. “When I was a kid, my magic was… turbulent.”
Not that the thorns don’t still grow today. They’re just fewer and farther between.
The words linger, but I don’t explain further. I don’t think I have to. I think Azaire knows exactly what I mean.
The first time my magic materialized, it came in thorns. They poked through my skin, from the inside out. Ma ripped each one out with tweezers. The only thing I really remember is the pain.
The blood that dripped at my feet.
Azaire lifts my hand, slowly at first. Reverently. Like he’s trying to gauge if I’ll pull away. Like he’s waiting for permission. I feel a sudden flutter of vulnerability rise in my chest. Then a flicker of doubt.
Should I pull back? Shield myself?
I don’t.
He lowers his lips, brushing across my scars. Tingles shoot up my spine. But I don’t pull my hand away. Instead, I keep my eyes on him, searching for a sign, a pause, a retreat.
But I realize: I don’t want him to stop.
Azaire’s lips trail higher, moving from my arm to my neck, kissing what I never thought anyone could touch.
My eyes close softly, surrendering to the deadly game. Tentatively testing the edges of what I believed was forever out of reach. It’s not just his lips on my skin—it’s his presence in my heart that makes this a risk.
And here I am, willingly throwing myself to chance.
A smile spreads across my face, and I want Azaire to see it.
A moan escapes me, and I want Azaire to hear it.
“I would kiss every inch of your skin,” he breathes, his lips barely grazing mine as they trail slowly, deliberately, until they settle just behind my ear. “A thousand times over. Just to hear you again.”
Warmth bubbles in my stomach at his words—at his want. It’s so rare to hear Azaire like this, and I want to hear more.
I turn my head, just enough to meet his eyes, and the feeling intensifies. I glance down at his lips, then back at his eyes.
The silence hones in until there’s nothing in the world but us.
“No one is stopping you.”
His smile is small, almost fragile—but I can feel the rapid thrum of his heartbeat beneath. His thumb tracing a path across my cheek. The touch is soft—too soft to be casual.
“Then show me,” he murmurs, the words moving through me. “Where are your scars?”
I don’t pull away, even if instinct is telling me I should. Everything else is telling me to lean in.
“Everywhere.”
Azaire’s gaze sharpens, and I can feel the weight of it as his thumb moves across my cheek. I can’t help but grip his hand, but I don’t pull him closer.
“Power doesn’t care about where it hits,” I add, the words coming out colder than I meant.
“No. It doesn’t,” he agrees quietly.
I lean in, drawn to him despite the truth of my words and all the scars I have to prove it. My lips find the edge of his wrist first, kissing up the length of his arm—the same way he had touched me.
“Hey,” he breathes, his voice rough. “That’s not fair.”
I press my lips against the hollow of his neck, meeting his eyes. Against his skin, I murmur, “What isn’t?”
“I don’t have any scars.”
I kiss one more time. Then another. “Maybe I just like kissing you.”
Azaire’s smile doesn’t fade, but there’s something in the way he looks at me—a look I don’t need empathy to decipher.
It’s desire that deepens his gaze.
“Then,” he says, his voice low, “I couldn’t possibly stop you.”
?
“You’re making a mistake, Wendy,” the boy tells me the moment I enter the confines of my room.
I slam the door shut behind me, trying to block out every emotion but my own.
I know I’m making a mistake—I could feel it when I first kissed Azaire.
I don’t need my mind to scream at me.
This is a mistake I’m choosing to make.
“It’s just for a little bit,” I say as I lean against my door. “I only need a little companionship, to recharge.”
“That is not how these things go.”
I pull my bottom lip between my teeth, shaking my head, although no one can see. Against my better judgment, I close my eyes.
On my bed, the boy is lying leisurely—despite his voice sounding anything but calm, prior to now.
“Lie with me.”
Once more, I shake my head. “I know what you think this is—”
“Wendy,” the boy breathes. “Please. Just lie with me.”
I stare at him for a moment, trying to think of a better excuse.
“Don’t make me beg,” he says. “Because I will.”
The moments pass, and his desperation grows. It presses into me as if he were a person.
In the end, I walk to my bed. I lie with my back touching the boy’s chest, and his arm wraps around me.
“I choose him—”
“Shh,” the boy cuts me off. “Allow me to hold you without the crushing restraints of a world beyond me. Let us just be here.”
I nod against his chest, leaning into him deeper. His breath pushes through my hair like the wind, and I hold him tighter. For better or worse, this is the single person who has been by my side for years.
For better or worse, his arms are my comfort.
After a while, the boy says, “Given your past, do you feel safe to be with him?”
“Yes.” I struggle to lie to myself, and the boy must know it too. “He’s strong.”
“Strength is not power,” he warns.
I look him in the eyes, the dark green swirling until it’s a muddied brown, and I clarify, “He’s powerful.”