Page 11 of The Blood that Binds Us

Faster than I can track the movement, he spins and grabs my hands, holding them too tightly in both of his. His lips curl into a grin as if a facetious thought crosses his mind, unfazed by my attempted assault.

“I told you—you’re mine. That,” he looks at the dainty heart inked into my skin, “is to make sure you don’t forget.” His eyes flash back to mine, not trailing to look at any other part of me besides my hip, and I can’t hold it back—I spit at the Black Art’s feet.

“Go to Hell, Your Grace.” I yank my hands free from his, and he doesn’t fight me.

“I thought you’d enjoy the symbolism. You seemed to think the nickname was so clever, I thought you may wish to enjoy it a little more… permanently.”

I snatch my dress from the ground, and Sin turns around again without my order. Forcing the dress to wiggle down my wet body, I shove my arms into the sleeves and swear as my shoulder strains to lift above my head. I place my hand against the bandage, now sodden from the bath and blood, and reach for my collective to heal the wound.

His hand slams down on the back of mine. “Leave it,” he growls, baring his teeth. “You don’t use magic unless I give youexplicitpermission to do so. Otherwise, you can have your chains back to match your new ink.”

I let my hand fall to my side, and his eyes flare with perverse amusement.

If you only knew what kind of magic I am capable of,Blackheart.

I may be trapped with the Black Art through his invisible tether, but a wicked smile tugs at my lips as I imagine the shock enveloping his face when I show him what I really am—whoI really am. He raises an eyebrow at my sudden change of expression, to which I simply shrug and push past him in the direction of camp.

His quiet footsteps fall in line behind me, and I can almost hear the devious grin stretch across his face. I want to whirl around and punch him square in his stupid muscular chest, but I don’t, knowing my shoulder couldn’t tolerate it, and neither would the Black Art. He let my earlier assault pass without punishment, but I don’t doubt trying that again would flare his temper beyond whatever semblance of control he has left.

The walk back to camp feels longer than when we left it. Maybe it’s the burning in my spine where I feel Sin’s stare burrowing into my flesh, or maybe it’s the desire to sneak a peek at the black heart weighing on my hip like the heaviest of swords. Either way, my calves beg for mercy as we crunch through the remnants of winter’s dead leaves, my feet tired and heavy in my too-thin leather sandals.

I am almost relieved when we spill through the last of the trees and into the small clearing that is our camp. Lying against the tree from earlier, I find the most comfortable position I can manage in the grass with my back to the lot of their miserable faces. The fire crackles and pops behind me, the dry branches gasping for their final breaths, when I hear one of them address Sin, a maniacal chuckle in his voice.

“You willing to share her, Your Grace? We wouldn’t mind a turn if you’re done with her.”

My blood turns to ice in my veins as I wait for his response, magic flooding to my forearms. I will melt the skin from their flesh before I let one of them even get close.

Try me.

A broken gasp like he was grabbed by the collar erupts from the guard who asked the lewd question.

His tone promising something lethal, Sin warns in a voice like sharpened steel, “The witch ismine.”

The guard stammers an apology, and I let loose a shaky breath. While I would be shortsighted to trust any of these men, Idotrust they won’t cross Sin. Nonetheless, I turn so I am facing them before I pretend to sleep.

Aplethora of guards peer down at us from the towering stone walls of the castle’s stronghold. Theyarepreparing for Legion to return then—to reclaim their stolen witch. I don’t doubt they will come. Cathal won’t risk allowing someone with my power to remain behind his enemy’s walls, even if that means foolishly ordering his threadbare army to rush into the kingdom storm that will surely consume them whole, bones and all.

Swallowing hard, I toss my hair, still tangled and free from its braid, over my shoulder, and step into the dim tunnel as the grated gates of the portcullis are raised for us. Sin thinks I am a Legion spy, that I surrendered to his army as some sort of elaborate ruse to infiltrate his borders. He is treating me as a prisoner of war. He has no idea I was Legion’s prisoner long before I was his, and he certainly doesn’t know why Cathal would go to such lengths to snatch me back.

A tussle of burnt steel and smoke assaults my nose as we emerge from the tunnel. The castle rears up in the distance, its spiked turrets a serrated knife threatening to tear through the tender wisps of clouds. Sin dismisses the others, and they head towards the barracks to my right, the tight rows of buildings with sloped roofs and burly men chortling outside them. Sin motions for me to follow him, and we head towards the castle, the shadows of its magnificent towers hovering over us. The last rays of afternoon light stretch from either side of the looming stone walls, as if the setting sun was embracing it in a warm hug.

The cobblestone feeds into a lush green carpet as we step into the same gardens visible from the balcony of my room last night. Spring is upon us, the weather already much warmer than the bone-chilling nights I spent in a Legion camp. It was winter both times they captured me—the night I confessed my secret to Cathal many years before, and a few weeks ago when I made a foolish mistake—one that resulted in me hitched over a horse’s backside like freshly killed game.

“Your Grace,” a man with short, dark hair approaches us, stopping to bow to Sin when he is near. He is clad in a suit of blackened steel, a blue-gray cape billowing out behind him as a squall rips through the keep, its icy kiss on my neck a violent reminder of the nights I spent huffing into my hands and rubbing my arms vigorously while Legion soldiers draped their shoulders with sun-dried hides.

Sin nods in greeting. “Aldred.”

“The council is waiting in the war room, Your Grace—your father requests your presence at once. What are the arrangements for this one?” Aldred asks with a nod in my direction.

Sin’s downward eyes sweep to mine with a look that could melt glaciers to rivulets. “Lock her up.”

A wry smile twists my lips as I meet his stare with a threat of my own—a promise to incinerate his soul should we find our positions reversed one day.

“At once, Your Grace. I will send Anika to follow up on her wound.” Aldred glances at the rotting two-day old bandage peeking out from my dress.

“Don’t. Maybe she’ll start remembering some things once the infection sets in.”

I hate him.

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