Jade
The flames wrap around me like liquid heat, drowning out everything beyond their light.
The warmth presses against every inch of my skin, and suddenly I’m hyperaware of my body, of the way the ceremonial robes cling to me, of how alone I am in this academy full of witches who’ve known what they are for their entire lives.
When I step through the veil of flames, Logan’s standing less than two feet away in the center of the fire, and my pulse skyrockets.
His eyes lock on mine, as intense as they were immediately after the kiss, but he blinks the emotion away in less than a second.
Like he was remembering what happened between us, then made a conscious decision to wipe it from his brain.
Like it was nothing. Which is exactly what he told me it was.
The word sears my heart more than fire ever could, and I hate myself for it. Because I’ve only known him for a few hours. I’ve had one conversation with him, max. Not even, given that we did a lot more touching than talking when we were alone in the forest.
One kiss—no matter how heated and intense—doesn’t create a true bond. At least, it logically shouldn’t.
Maybe he was right about it being an adrenaline-fueled psychological response, or whatever it was he said.
But in here, in this cocoon of heat and shadow, it feels like there’s no one else in the world. Just Logan, me, and fire that wants to swallow us both. Then there’s the electricity humming in the air between us, urging me to close the space between us…
Hopefully I’m not the only one feeling it.
I shift slightly on my feet, and the flames shift from orange to bright yellow.
“Nervous.” His voice is low and controlled, but his eyes tell a different story as they track over me like he’s cataloguing every secret I’ve ever tried to hide.
“No,” I lie, and the yellow burns even brighter, as if it’s calling me out.
“You’re apparently unable to hide your emotions from either your face or the fire.” He holds up a quill that glows white-hot, and I realize through the insult—was it an insult?—that he’s about to carve into my skin with it. “Your right hand.”
Energy buzzes through me so intensely that it feels like it’s going to burst out of me, and I hesitate, unsure what will happen when I touch him. Will the fire burn down the castle? Will the world implode?
“Jade.” He releases an impatient breath. “Your hand.”
“Right. Sorry.” I straighten, not breathing as I place my right hand in his.
“Relax.” He speaks the word far sharper than its meaning implies, jolting me back into focus.
When my gaze meets his, there’s exhaustion in his eyes. Or annoyance. Likely annoyance. But it’s gone before I can tell.
Slowly, he turns my palm up, his thumb brushing the place where the sword cut me. His touch lingers a beat too long, and his breathing hitches, so slight I almost miss it.
It feels like time is frozen, and I let my hand melt into his, not wanting to break the moment.
“Interesting.” He leans closer, looming over me, close enough that I can see the dark flecks in his gray eyes and the orange-red glow reflected in them from the fire. “This healed faster than it should have.”
“What?” I ask, quieter than intended.
“The cut. It’s gone.” His thumb lingers, feather-light, and I shiver, the air around us cooling slightly. “Witches heal faster than humans, but not this fast.”
He looks back at me, and his pupils dilate, turning his eyes dark and stormy.
My heart races, every bone in my body buzzing at the sudden realization at how intimate this moment is, and the flames around us flicker, yellow bleeding toward—
“Control yourself.” He jerks back, the movement too sharp, too sudden. Like someone yanked him with invisible strings. “Now.”
“I don’t know how—“
“Breathe with me.” His eyes flicker to my mouth before snapping up again. “In through your nose. Hold. Out through your mouth.”
I try, but his thumb keeps circling my palm in maddening, gentle patterns. The touch seems unconscious, like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it, and that makes it worse somehow. Makes it feel real.
“Focus on my voice.” Sweat glistens on his brow, the hand not holding mine clenching and unclenching at his side, wildness burning in his gaze. “We need orange flames. Neutral ones that won’t give away what you’re feeling. Think of something dull. Something boring.”
“It’s hard to think of something boring when you’re touching me.” The confession slips free, and the flames leap brighter.
Something dark and dangerous flashes across his face, but it’s gone so fast it’s like a glitch in reality. “Jade, I swear to the gods, if you don’t get these flames under control—“
“You’ll what?” My voice comes out breathless, almost daring him.
His hand tightens on mine, and he leans in slightly. When he speaks again, his voice is carefully controlled.
“Breathe. With me. Now.”
We go through the breathing exercise again. And again. Each time, just when I think I have control, he’ll do something—a look, a touch, the way his voice drops—and I unravel.
But I’m starting to notice a pattern. The way his control slips just before mine does. The way he watches my mouth when he thinks I’m focused. The flex of his fingers against mine, like he’s memorizing the feel of my skin.
By the third time, sweat drips down his temple, his hand trembling slightly around mine. His eyes are feverish, making him look less like the perfect student proctor and more like a man on the edge of breaking.
“Logan, are you—”
“Orange.” His grip goes slack, then tightens again. “Keep them orange.”
Finally, impossibly, the flames steady into perfect control.
“Good.” He raises the quill, and when he positions it above my palm, he takes a deep breath, like he’s preparing for battle. “This will hurt.”
The moment the glowing ember tip touches my palm, agony sears up my arm, and I bite down hard on my lip, the taste of blood filling my mouth. His eyes track the movement, darkening further, the quill trembling in his grip as more sweat beads on his forehead.
Intensity hums in the breeze starting to swirl around us, dangerous and alive, and then—
Silver electricity crackles across the forming sigil, racing up my arm in a bright web of light.
Logan’s hand jerks back. The quill clatters to the stone floor.
The sigil completes itself in a burst of electric fire, a flare of silver magic that arcs up between us before sputtering out. And in the silence that follows, Logan just stares at me, haunted, like I’ve become something he can’t control.
“What was that?” He studies the place where the silver electricity raced up my arm, his voice too steady now, too controlled.
“Magic?” I state the obvious, studying the completed flame sigil on my palm that’s throbbing with residual heat. Its delicate, swirling lines glow softly against my skin.
“It wasn’t fire magic.” His eyes snap to mine, sharp and assessing. “Witches are only supposed to have fire magic. So, whatever it was, don’t tell anyone. Never tell anyone.”
“Why would I—”
“Listen to me.” He steps closer, and there are only inches between us now, intensity rolling off him in waves.
“I don’t know what type of magic that was, but our kind doesn’t like different.
You’re getting enough attention by being the only witch here who didn’t know about the supernatural world before arriving, and you don’t need any more of it. ”
The reminder stings, especially since I’m pretty sure I’ve known this electricity magic was wrong from the moment it lit up the sword during the Hydra trial. “No kidding.”
“I’m serious, Jade.” The way he says my name makes my stomach flip. “You can’t let them see… whatever it was you just did.”
“Why are you trying to help me?” The question comes out more vulnerable than I intended. “Why do you even care?”
Pain flickers in his eyes, there and gone so quickly I almost convince myself I imagined it. “As proctor, it’s my responsibility to look out for every student. To be someone they can trust.”
“And are you?” I search his face, the fire’s light dancing across every perfect line of it. “Trustworthy?”
He’s quiet for a long moment, and I notice how truly exhausted he looks. Sweat beads at his temple, his shoulders are tense, and there’s a heaviness in his gaze, a shadow I can’t name.
“Yes. I am. And I need you to trust me, Jade.” His voice drops low as war tears across his face. Want versus control. Desire versus duty. Hunger versus reason. “Please.”
My heart pounds. The intensity in his voice, the way he’s looking at me—like I’m precious and dangerous all at once—makes it hard to breathe.
Then he exhales, defeated. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
He gestures at the flames around us, which have shifted to deep purple. “I did everything I could. But I can’t—” He cuts himself off, and his hands curl into fists, knuckles white with strain.
“Can’t what?” I lean in, wanting to be close to him, wanting to help him relax from whatever’s causing him so much stress.
His gaze hardens again, any trace of vulnerability gone. “Even I have my limits.”
The purple flames continue to dance around us, beautiful in their intensity. I don’t understand why he looks so defeated by them, but the way he’s staring at them—like they’re revealing a terrible secret—makes my stomach twist.
“Go.” His body is coiled tight, his dark hair fallen over his forehead, like he’s seconds away from either grabbing me or running from me. “Now.”
His tone brooks no argument. So, I take one last look at him—exhausted, conflicted, and beautiful even in defeat—and turn toward the wall of flames. My new sigil throbs as I step through, the purple fire parting around me like silk.
When I emerge, snickers ripple through the gathered first-years.
“Well.” Constance’s voice slices through the whispers. “That was an interesting turn of events. Perhaps next time, Miss Harrington, you’ll focus on something more neutral during sacred ceremonies.”
More snickers.
What did I do this time to warrant this kind of reaction? I have no idea. The only thing I know is that I want the floor to open, swallow me whole, and drop me off at Yale as a student there.
Except at Yale, there’s no Logan. And my heart clenches at the thought of being somewhere he isn’t, no matter how irrational the feeling might be.
“Silence.” Constance’s command quiets the group, although the stares remain. “Next up—Vera Jackson.”
I stumble back to my place beside Evie, my sigil throbbing against my palm.
She grabs my arm the second I’m close enough. “Purple?” she whispers, her eyes wide. “What happened in there?”
“What does purple mean?” I have a sinking suspicion, but I need to hear someone else say it.
“Desire. Lust. Passion.” She studies my face like she’s reading a textbook. “The flames basically announced to everyone that you were having very... stimulating feelings about the person who was in there with you.”
My face burns hotter. Because Logan knew.
He knows what I feel for him, which means he knew exactly what color the flames would turn.
He fought to stop it, and failed, and now every first-year and the Headmistress knows about the stupid crush I’ve had on him since he saved me from being eaten alive by the Hydra.
And as the ceremony drags on, my traitorous mind refuses to think about anything but purple flames, gray eyes, and the way Logan said, “even I have my limits,” as if the words were torn from the deepest part of his soul.