But Blaze is looking at me like my particular brand of crazy is a feature rather than a bug.
"Well," I say, recovering, "until I can seeyoujump through a ring of fire, I won't make any promises either. Seems only fair."
He blinks.
Then laughs again—that same genuine, delighted sound.
"Fire is more my thing, actually." He raises one hand, and for a moment—just a moment—I swear I see flames dancing between his fingers. "Jumping through it, setting it, playing with it like a toy. Got me into trouble more times than I can count, but at least I look pretty while doing it."
The flames vanish.
If they were ever there.
Maybe I imagined them.
Maybe my brain is playing tricks again.
"I don't know about jumping," I say, forcing myself to focus, "but I can definitely do my part hanging from a ring of fire with the right protection. Aerial work is sort of my specialty."
His eyebrows rise.
Interest.
Genuine interest.
"Aerial work. Like circus stuff?"
"Like ballet stuff, but in the air." I shrug, feeling the pull of muscles that haven't been properly stretched in too long. "Rings, silks, ropes. Anything I can hang from and make beautiful. Though I suppose fire would add a certain...flair."
"Flair." He rolls the word around like he's tasting it. "I like that. Might have to take you up on that offer sometime, Omega. I've been looking for a partner who doesn't mind getting a little singed."
The way he saysOmega—casual, affectionate, without any of the weight most Alphas put on the designation—makes my chest do something complicated.
Don't get attached.
This is temporary.
Remember the deal.
But it's hard to remember the deal when he's looking at me like that.
Like I'm a person.
Like I'm interesting.
Like I'm worth more than my designation or my body count or the madness that lives behind my eyes.
My gaze drifts—automatic, assessing, cataloguing details the way I always do—and lands on his throat.
Bandages.
White gauze wrapped around his neck, partially hidden by the collar of his shirt but visible enough to notice. The wrapping looks professional—neat, precise, the work of someone who knows what they're doing.
"Why are you bandaged?" The question comes out before I can filter it. "Did you get hurt?"
He touches the gauze automatically—a gesture I recognize, the unconscious check of an injury that's still tender.
"This?" A chuckle, low and rough, the sound scraping over something damaged. "The antidote I gave you did a number on my throat, is all. Healing up fine."
