The Flame Trilogy (Books I, II & III)

2.19

Dimitri

She appears before me like a shimmering mirage, if I hadn't grown accustomed to her presence here in my dreams I might believe that it was simply that- a meaningless dream. Not that I can tell the difference, whether it's really her or not, she is all I ever see when I close my eyes.

Well I suppose that's not entirely true. Though we cannot hide, or put on any pretence here, the real Arashi always seems to carry herself differently to the replications my own mind materialises. She is still guarded, even here where she cannot be hurt— it's an imperceptible difference and yet I notice it anyway.

Today is no different, she wears a vest and a pair of girl boxers, arms and legs decorated with ink on full display. My first thought is filled with a desperate hunger, an overwhelming urge to pull her close to me to trace my fingers over the familiar monochrome ink penned onto her skin. It is only then that I realise the absurdity of the whole scene.

We've ended up in one of the marked dirt squares for sparring in White Claw's training grounds. The rest of the place, the sparring equipment, and weapons racks all lay untouched— completely barren of all other life.

I hunch forward, heart stuttering. Even here I can feel the sharp pain of her betrayal as vividly as if I were awake. I cannot help but wonder, if she right now is lying beside him whilst she dreams of me.

She offers me a soft smile, one I know that outside of this strange space I would never have a chance to see. This softness in her that exists here, I am not sure it truly still lives in her. Her time at Shadow Fang it seems, has burnt any of that away, branded it as weakness and made her empty of it. It almost looks wrong on her hardened features, and yet I cannot help thinking it is the most beautiful sight that I have ever seen.

It almost disarms my anger. Almost.

When she throws her arms around my neck, and presses her face into the side of mine, I have to remind myself what she has done. I cannot decide what ails me more, the fact that she can act as though she has not ripped my beating heart out just a day ago, or that I expected her to be apologetic and honest knowing who she was and where she came from.

She presses small kisses against the side of my face, on my jaw, and to my throat. Her touch is uncharacteristically gentle, shy even— a feather light embrace that I want nothing more than to lean into. Only I can't help but wonder, is this the way she kissed him too?

I pull away from her, taking her hands away from my neck and putting a few paces between us. I can see the hurt written in her eyes; we have spent enough time together here that I can read her like an open book now. I thought perhaps she felt the same about me, so then why can't she see the pain in mine?

Perhaps she can, perhaps she is revelling in it. Perhaps she sleeps beside him every night. Perhaps on nights like these when she dreams of me, she wakes up and tells him all about it, and they laugh at my idiocy. Perhaps she is playing me for a fool. Perhaps I am an idiot, and I cannot trust her. She herself warned me. I know what she is, I know where she came from.

"What's the matter?" Her brows furrow, watching me carefully. I cannot decipher whether it is concern or something else written in her eyes.

I wonder if it is my cynicism that wants to punish her, or if I am right to be wary of her. Everything is always 10x harder with my mate, I cannot just take her at face value. I wonder what the moon goddess could have possibly been thinking when she paired us together.

I cannot see any logic in it, and yet even now, with her eyes on me, I know that I do not care about logic. I care only for her. It only hurts me more.