Page 130 of A Kingdom of Wild and Power
His gaze held hers, unwavering.
‘Does it frighten you, Dawn,’ he asked softly, ‘that someone might actually like your true form? Your real you?’
Dawn felt the sting before the tears could even fall. They gathered, traitorous and hot, but she swallowed them down and sealed herself shut. She would not unravel. Not again. She had once allowed herself to be soft, and the world had devoured her for it. She would not make that mistake twice.
And besides, whatever Kai believed he felt for her was built upon a lie.
Because when they found Ash, and she drove a blade through his heart, everything would change. Kai would look at her the way the rest always had. With disgust. With betrayal. With that quiet confirmation that she was exactly what they said she was.
‘Stop it,’ she said.
But every word she spoke only brought him closer.
‘Why?’ he pressed. ‘Why do you want me to stop?’
‘Because I don’t even like myself, Kai!’ The words tore out of her before she could cage them. ‘So how could you?’
Silence struck between them.
She watched him falter, watched the certainty shine in his eyes, replaced by something rawer. She huffed in frustration atherself. Fool. Weak. She had handed him the blade.
She expected laughter. Mockery. Pity.
Instead, he reached for her.
His hands closed around her arms, not harshly, but gently, as though she were something breakable.
‘You shouldn’t hate yourself, Dawn,’ he said, and his voice was no longer sharp. It was soft. Almost reverent.
She shoved him away.
‘Well, I do.’ Her voice trembled despite her efforts. ‘This is what happens when you’re told your entire life that you’re vermin. This is what witches have always had to endure. We’ve had to look at ourselves and despise what we see. Hate our purple eyes. Hate what we are.’ She swallowed, throat burning. ‘What did you expect?’
The corridor felt smaller now. Colder.
As though the stones themselves were listening.
She saw the flash of hurt in his eyes. Not anger. Not mockery. But pain.
Pain for her.
And somehow that wounded her far more deeply.
She did not want his pity. She did not want his gentleness. She did not want that fragile, terrifying possibility that he might truly see her and not recoil.
No. Hate she understood. Contempt she could survive.
But this?
If he was different… if he truly was different…
‘Stop trying to save me,’ she spat, her voice sharp enough to cut. She stepped back as though his concern might scorch her. ‘I don’t need you to save me. I don’t need you at all.’
The words tasted bitter. False. Necessary.
‘You always do this,’ she continued, each sentence building a wall between them. ‘You play the hero to make yourself feelbetter. To compensate for whatever guilt you’re carrying. You don’t actually care about me.’
There it was. The final blow.
