“You act like hating me makes you strong.”

His voice was quiet—calculated. A blade slipped beneath the ribs when you weren’t looking. He tilted his head, eyes dark, unreadable, except for the hint of something deeper—something dangerous—hidden beneath the surface.

“But if that were true,” he murmured, stepping closer, boots silent on the cobblestones, “why do you let me get this close?”

Another step. Close enough that you could smell the scent of ash, rain, and gunpowder clinging to his coat. His gloved fingers twitched at his side, but he didn’t touch you. He didn’t have to. You could feel him—like a storm rolling in under your skin.

“Go ahead,” Kaz said, voice dropping to a whisper. His eyes burned into yours, sharp enough to cut. “Hate me. I dare you.”

A pause.

“Just don’t lie to yourself and call it hate when we both know it feels like fire.”