Page 148 of She Who Holds My Wrath

I scowl at the tonic and cork the vial harder than necessary. “Perfect,” I mutter. “Another problem to add to my ever-growing list of things I didn’t sign up for.”

By the time my shift ends, I’m fed up, exhausted, and deeply pissed off by alchemy as a concept. I’m a drama student, for gods sake. Not a freaking wizard.

I grab a bowl of something warm and vaguely stew-adjacent from the mess hall—filled with staff from half a dozen realms crammed together, voices overlapping, tension humming beneath forced normalcy—and eat just enough to keep myself upright. I miss pizza.

I retreat to my room without bothering to socialise. Most people just scowl at me, anyway. Apparently, they can coexist with soldiers and workers from entirely different realms, but a human is where they draw the line? Either that, or it could be the fact that I keep messing everything up.

Rain starts just as I reach my room. Not a gentle rain either. It’s the kind of storm that feels like the world is about to end. Thunder cracks so loudly it rattles the windows, rain hammering against the glass so hard, I half expect it to shatter. It’s just after five p.m., but my room is cloaked in near-darkness thanks to the thick clouds blotting out Hell’s usual red-lightning-streaked sky. The candles along the walls flare to life. I’ve noticed they seem to be enchanted to respond to darkness automatically. They cast the space in a soft gold light and long, flickering shadows. The rain drowns everything else out, turning the world distant and muffled.

I drop onto the edge of the bed and press my face into my hands. I hate that stupid tonic. I hate storms. I hate that Cassyr is apparently dating someone hot and competent. And I really really hate that this bothers me at all.

A knock sounds at the door, and I blow out an irritated breath before dragging myself up to open it. Cassyr stands in the doorway, damp from the rain, his healer’s robes clinging slightly to his broad frame. His hair is loose from its usual knot, dark strands curling around his face. Candlelight catches in his amber eyes, making them glint like molten gold.

“Oh,” he says, clearly surprised. “You don’t look like I’ve just woken you from a nap.”

“Rude,” I reply automatically. “I don’t always nap after work.”

His mouth twitches but he quickly hides it. “I heard you were struggling.”

I frown, blinking up at him. Despite the fact I’m six foot tall, he still towers over me. Fucking demons and their unfairly attractive height.

“With what?” I ask.

“The sedation tonic,” he says. “Word travels fast.”

I sigh and step aside, gesturing him in. “Of course word about my incompetence travels fast.”

He hesitates only for a second before stepping inside. The door closes behind him, thunder rolling immediately after. He glances around the space, neither of us speaking as the sound of the rain fills the silence.

“I can help,” he says finally. “If you would like me to.”

I fold my arms. “I thought you would be too busy dating stunning Solaran healers.”

The words are out before I can stop them. Fucking idiot. Heat floods my cheeks as I mentally berate myself.

Cassyr stares at me with a deep frown line settling between his thick dark brows. “I’m not.”

“Oh.”

He arches a brow, a hint of a smirk tugging at his irritating mouth. “Is that… relevant?”

I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again. Way to look like a fucking fish out of water, Ezra. Stellar performance.

“No. Definitely not. Just… rumours.”

“Hm.” He moves to the desk in my room, littered with vials filled with my many, many failures from the last few days. “You followed the recipe too literally.”

I bristle, my defensive side rearing its ugly head. “I followed it exactly.”

“That’s the problem,” he says mildly. “Sedation magic isn’t precise. It’s intuitive. You’re treating it like maths.”

“I hate maths,” I mutter.

“I know.” Those words make me frown this time.

He picks up one of the vials, pops the cork, and sniffs it. His nose instantly crinkles in disgust. With a quiet sigh and an eye roll, he sets it down and slips the satchel from his shoulder—one I hadn’t even noticed he was carrying—and places it on the desk. After rummaging through it, he lays out ingredients, a book, and two empty vials.

“Sit,” he says, gesturing to the stool.