Page 31

Dawson whaled on a punching bag. He no longer wore his shirt, and she noticed a large tattoo on his right arm. Non-magic. It would have been obvious by the ink, but also because there was no magic branding she could think of like that. A dragon wound its way from his shoulder to his wrist.

Barefoot, he was light on his feet, while his punches appeared more violent than necessary for training. His muscles flexed with each precisely placed punch, and his skin glistened with sweat. Mira shouldn’t be watching him, but somehow she couldn’t stop.

“Might as well come in and take a seat,” Dawson said without looking at her, and she wanted to die of embarrassment. Ground open, please.

She walked in, trying to think of a reason why she would be looking for him.

“I need more of Buckley’s blood.” A lie but hopefully a believable one.

Dawson nodded and started to unwrap the band around his left hand. As he moved toward her, she noticed the sheer number of scars littered across his torso. All in different shapes and sizes. Some appeared to be claw marks from demons, but most of them looked like scars from Dark Magic spells. She held her breath. This many scars…he must have played an active part in the war.

He noticed her stare, and a wicked glint flashed across his eyes.

“You were one of Mercer’s soldiers.” Her voice came out a whisper.

Slowly, he walked closer until she could feel the heat radiating from his body.

He cocked his head and ran a tongue along his right canine. “Say it again. From your lips, it sounds like sin.”

The way he spoke, how he towered over her, it was all part of his intimidation tactic.

She lifted her head. “I’m not scared of you.”

“The tremble in your voice suggests otherwise.”

To prove her point, she took a step toward him. “I’m curious. Do your scars still hurt?”

Did they ever burn his skin the way her scar did?

He stilled entirely against her, a marble statue, waiting for her to continue. His silver eyes narrowed, daring her to speak.

“I think they do, and that’s why you’re drinking a handle of whiskey and downing narcotic painkillers like they’re candy.”

A sinister grin spread across his features, and for a moment, all the courage left her. “You think you know me, Winters?” He let their bodies touch, and his hard chest moved against her with angry breaths. “You think because you got hurt in the war, we are the same?”

She swallowed hard, feeling like she had crossed a line and now he was going to cross one, too. She shook her head, opening her mouth to tell him that’s not what she meant, but his hand grabbed her jaw, angling her head up to meet his emotionless eyes. His touch was cold, unlike the rest of his body.

“We are not the same,” he hissed against her lips. She tried to free herself, but in response, he inched closer. Every fiber of her body was hyperaware of any contact with him. “And what about you, huh? Hiding your magic like a coward.”

“I’m not hiding,” she responded angrily.

“Oh, but you are. From your powers. From the university itself. Why do you think you never see anyone in the hallways of Ivercrest?”

What did he just say?

“Stop it,” she demanded.

But he wasn’t done yet. “There are many Wielders who live on campus, but the university adjusts to you. It shows you what you want to see. And you, Mira Winters, want to be a ghost, hiding in the shadows. Perhaps you hid your own magic so well, not even Ivercrest can make sense of you.”

There it was. The proverbial gut punch. He had set out to hurt her just as much as her words had hurt him.

She pushed her arms against him again, and this time he let her go and took a step back. She clenched her jaw, making sure no tears fell. The last thing she needed was to cry in front of him.

For once, she had no clever retort. The scar on her arm burned. Her chest felt tight. He just stared at her, without emotion.

“Change the shield,” she demanded with fury.

Coolly, he tightened the wrap around his hand like nothing had happened.