The flames licked at my palm, dancing around the velvet box with an unnatural hunger. I let the fire grow, feeding it with all the pain and rage I'd bottled up for years. The heat should have burned me, but my skin remained unscathed—one of the perks of being a fire witch.
"Elara, stop!" Rhys lunged forward, panic etched across his features.
I stepped back, holding the burning box away from him. "Stay. Back." Each word was punctuated with venom.
"You're going to hurt yourself," he insisted, eyes wide with genuine concern.
A bitter laugh escaped my lips. "Now you care about hurting me? That's rich."
I threw the flaming box to the marble floor between us. It landed with a soft thud, the velvet exterior already turning black and crisp. The sight of it burning gave me a sick sense of satisfaction—watching something he valued being destroyed, just as he'd once destroyed me.
