He snaps back to me. “It’s not a compliment. Raw talent means nothing if you haven’t had any training.”

I bristle. “Xander trained me.”

“Not well enough. It’s like you have the potential to be the world’s greatest acrobat, yet all you know how to do is walk on a balance beam. You’ll never make it through this competition.”

I almost jerk my hand out of his grip. “That’s not true. You haven’t seen half of what I can do.”

“Then heal yourself.”

I stare at my split skin. I can feel the magic burning around it, hungry for a command I’m never going to give. I try to pull my hand away, but his grip tightens.

“You won’t do it.” It’s not a question. He shakes his head. “You could have healed this in an instant with all the magic I felt rolling off you.”

“Not worth it.”

He studies me before turning back to my hand and moving to press his fingers against my cut.

“No.” I try to tug away from him. “I don’t want it used on me either.”

He doesn’t let me go, though. “We’re not walking back with you dripping blood like a magician buffet.”

“You don’t have to walk with me.” I try to escape his iron grip again.

He lets out an irritated growl as his hands tighten around mine. “I thought you wanted to win this competition? You can’t do that if you’re dead. Let me do it for you, just this once.”

He must see the hesitation on my face because he looks back down at my hand and runs a finger across my cut before I can say no again. A tingling pours from his touch and my hand itches, and then the pain is gone. He passes me the handkerchief so I can clean away the rest of the blood.

I begrudgingly take it without saying thank you. It’s only one time, and only because he didn’t give me much of a choice.

He rises from the bench. “I will still take you back.”

“I can make it myself.”

“Of that, I have no doubt.” He smiles faintly. “Regardless.” He holds out a palm, gesturing for me to rise.

I don’t take his offered hand, but I get up with a sigh and walk beside him.

We move in silence until Roman stops just before we reach the club.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

He pulls something from his pocket and comes toward me, pressing it into my hand. I stare down at a wad of bills. More than one boasts a hundred on it.

“Get on a bus and go home,” he says.