Thorne
Nyx hates me.
The fire in her eyes today wasn't new, wasn't startling, wasn't even particularly sharp compared to the blades she's thrown at me before. If anything, it was familiar, comforting in the most twisted way. At least I knew where I stood with her. At least the loathing was honest.
What she will never understand, what she refuses to even consider, is this:
Everything I've ever done, every cruel word I've spat, every time I've turned my back or let silence speak louder than any defense… I did it for her.
Every single time.
The harshness wasn't cruelty for cruelty's sake.
The distance wasn't indifference.
The cold shoulder wasn't rejection.
It was protection.
The only kind I knew how to give.
Nyx has always been wildfire in human form, fierce, untamed, reckless in a way that made her impossible to look away from and equally impossible to control. She burned too bright, too fast, too dangerously. And every time she flared, someone got scorched.
