You should’ve killed him when you had the chance.

That was the thought that ran through your mind as Calcharo’s hand pinned your wrist against the jagged wall of the underground ruins. His breath was uneven, matching yours — not from exertion, but from the fire that had been building between you since your very first clash.

"You hesitated again," he growled, lightning crackling faintly around his other hand. “Why?”

You glared at him, refusing to show weakness. “Why didn’t you?”

His lips curled into that damnable half-smile — amused, dangerous, intrigued. “Touché.”

You hated how close he was. Hated how your pulse raced not from fear but from the fact that it was him—the one who made every fight feel like a dance, every insult feel like flirtation in disguise.

“I should finish this,” you muttered.

He leaned in, his forehead nearly brushing yours, and the air between you snapped with electric tension. “Then do it.”