Page 221 of House Ignis

I snorted into the cup, the heat of the coffee warming my palms. “Careful what you offer, Ezra,” I muttered, taking a long, reviving sip.

Despite the silence in my head, the shadow at my side felt a little less heavy.

The thought of burning off some of this suffocating rage on the training mats wasn’t... terrible.

“Not a bad idea,” I admitted, my lips curving.

Ezra’s grin widened, sharp and knowing. “Get dressed, Hotshot. I’ll meet you downstairs.”

•••

The dew clung to the blades of grass like tiny diamonds, and mist curled low to the ground as we walked out to the sparring field behind House Ignis.

The place was deserted—far too early for anyone with a shred of sanity to be awake.

Ezra rolled his shoulders, loose and ready, while I dragged my feet behind him, nursing the last of my butterscotch coffee as if it were the only thing tethering me to the earth.

“You look thrilled,” he teased, tossing his black shirt onto the fence.

“I hate you,” I muttered, setting my cup down on a nearby bench with a hollow clink.

“Good.” He began to stretch, his muscles flexing in a way that proved he knew exactly how annoyingly impressive he looked in the dawn light. “Anger makes you faster. Use it.”

I groaned, pulling my hair back into a tight ponytail. “You’re unbearable, Valeor.”

“And you’re stalling, Hotshot,” he shot back, flashing me an infuriating grin.

Gods, he was too smug.

We squared off, our breath misting in the air. His stance was relaxed, almost lazy—but I knew better.

“First to pin?” I asked, fire already sparking at the tips of my fingers, mirroring the restless energy in my chest.

His grin turned wicked. “You won’t last a minute.”

My chest tightened.

That cocky smirk—it was the same kind of expression Asher wore when he was about to ruin me.

The thought made something in me flare white-hot.

Anger, grief, and a desperate, suffocating need for the man who wasn't there.

I lunged.

Fire roared from my palm in a jagged whip.

Ezra met it with shadows, smooth and sure. He moved like smoke, twisting around the flames and catching me off balance.

He snagged my wrist, spun me, and sent me skidding across the damp, slick grass.

“Too slow,” he taunted, his voice a low vibration.

Heat surged through me—real, blinding heat. I came at him harder,

flames spilling out in violent streaks of red and gold.

I reached for the bond, desperate for that familiar surge of power—