Page 22 of The Blood that Binds Us

I move to the armoire and reach around him to snatch the ties for my braid from the inner shelf.

“Why would I go? He has no information for me. Forus,” I correct.

“Did you mistake that as a question?”

I move so I stand in front of him, close enough my chest almost brushes against his.

“What information do you have regarding my family? You said you knew something.”

“Yes, information formeto know andyouto work for.” Sin runs a hand through his unbound hair, and I watch in the mirror as it falls down his back like spilled ink.

“I could have devastated this place when they brought me here. All of you. Ichoseto hand myself over, to ask for protection from the kingdom, risking myliferather than kill your people. But you are no better than them, no better than Cathal, trying to use me for your own gains. I am not your puppet,” I spit the last word at him, jabbing a finger into his chest.

He grabs my arm and pins it between us, my chest rising and falling faster now. “I am your Black Art.” The snarl in his voice is unmistakably a warning, but I’ve never been good at heeding the cautions of men.

“No leader of mine would condone the extinction of my kind or my family’s. You arenothingto me.”

Sin’s downward eyes narrow even farther, reducing to feral slits, and he drops my arm, his hands balling into fists. I prepare to duck if he swings at me. “You forget yourself, Wren.” His tone is low, restrained, like he is attempting to leash the fire I stoked. Sin backs away from me, hands still clenched, as if needing to put distance between us. “Put some clothes on. I’ll send Aldred to escort you.”

“Escort me where?”

“To breakfast. You’ll be joining the council this morning.”

“I assume it isn’t optional.”

“We need to discuss strategy for your meeting with Langston tonight.” He backs up a few steps but doesn’t divert his stare. “Don’t fuck it up, Wren. It won’t pain me to punish you.”

I almost respond, but a flicker of self-preservation halts the words before they spew from my mouth. He turns and leaves, closing the door behind him a little too forcefully.

Grimacing at the closet, I yank out a bright yellow-orange dress, its color rivaling the sun for vibrancy, and slip it over my head now sporting its top-heavy braid. The Black Art’s words repeat in my head, and I don’t allow myself to consider whatpunishmentshe had in mind. His Grace has a reputation for being cruel, but I’m not sure just how far that cruelty extends. Would he have me locked in the dungeon again, or would he go as far as to maim or physically harm me?It won’t pain me to punish you. Punish, not kill. I suppose there is comfort to be found in that.

Aldred arrives and escorts me from my room minutes later. We climb the baronial stone staircase to the story above us, and I follow Aldred down the corridor, the gentle flickering from the wall sconces the only light in the windowless hallway. Paintings of scenic landscapes, sprawling forests and bodies of water adorn the walls, fitted inside gold leaf frames. I eye the sweeping strokes of blues and greens, the terrain reminiscent of the woods I grew up in, and make a mental note to come back here alone to further appreciate the artwork.

The hallway veers into two wings, and Aldred leads us into the left one. My eyes drift to the shadowy vastness of the right wing, and I wonder what curiosities lie within that expanse. Perhaps tools to aid in the Black Art’spunishments.My thoughts drift to a dark room with an obsidian spike ridden cabinet and a wall lined with sting delivering whips, but I dissolve the image. If Sin was intending on torturing me for information, he would have done so the day he dragged me back here, convinced I was a Legion spy. But he didn’t…somethingmade him hesitate.

“Where are we going?” I had assumed we would be served our breakfast in the dining hall.

“The war room. His Grace prefers all planning to happen there.”

So secretive, Your Grace?Though, I suppose if I was conspiring against my closest allies, I would prioritize subtly as well.

We stop in front of a wooden door with a blackened horse head mounted on it, the circular knocker a ring through the steed’s nose. I would think it forged from iron if not for the burn it would incite on the Black Art’s hands and his council’s, assuming His Grace keeps mages in his close circle. Crafted from a different metal then.

Aldred pounds the heavy accent against the door once and swings it open without waiting for a response. He motions for me to enter before him, and I step into the castle’s war room. The space is small, mostly occupied by a long rectangular table in the center. The wall behind the table is filled with a series of matching wooden bookcases stretching all the way to the ceiling, the spines of countless leather-bound volumes facing outward.

Five sets of eyes glue onto mine. Sin sits at the head of the table, flanked by Ileana and his father on either side. Aldred moves to sit next to Dusaro, and the commander motions for me to take a seat in the high-backed chair next to himself. Across from Aldred is the robed woman I recognize from the small group Sin brought with him before coming after me. When I ran from him and he hunted me down like I was no more than a rabbit, existing only to fill the stomachs of wolves. His Grace may have bound me to him in more ways than one that night, but a magical tether does not mean he owns my will.A rabbit-hearted girl I am not, Your Grace.

The chair across from me belongs to a balding man I don’t recognize, dressed in the same onyx robes the woman wears. He gives me a disapproving once over as I take my seat, and I shift my eyes to take turns meeting each set still adhered to mine. With her hood down, the woman’s short auburn hair is visible, along with a silver amulet at her neck, an upside-down triangle etched into its surface. The points represent life, death, and rebirth—the insignia royal mages tend to gatekeep. They don’t like sharing the symbol with those of mixed blood—hell, they won’t even share the termmage. Since I was born to mundane parents, the kingdom will never refer to me as anything other thanwitch.

A large window overlooks the grounds at my left, and a stone fireplace crackles softly at my right. Two servants, each carrying a tray with covered platters, enter the room and place heaping dinner plates in front of us. My decorative plate is loaded with generous portions of eggs, ham, and bread with a deep reddish-purple jam that smells of figs cut with a hint of citrus. I force myself to eat slowly, to not let them see how much that time I spent locked in the cell has stoked my hunger. One of the servants begins filling the mugs at our place settings with a steaming amber tea. Sin takes a deep sip of his tea and clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth before addressing the council.

“This last stint of theirs has left them vulnerable. We have Cathal now, and without that prick handing out death sentences to his men like candies, I doubt they’ll be as forward. Scouts found what remains of them held up in Spiritwood and Autumnhelm. They’re splitting up and hanging low, but they won’t be able to sustain much longer.”

I swallow hard at the mention of Autumnhelm. The woods are vast, but the thought of Legion sniffing anywhere near our cabin turns my stomach to lead. My chest aches thinking of how many innocent lives will be lost—stolen by the rebellion who brings in more mouths than they can feed. I steal a glance at Ileana and wonder if it bothers her to hear Sin speak of them. Does it pain her to know the heart of the man who hurt her in so many ways continues to beat beneath her feet? I wonder if she has the nightmares too.

“They’ll either die from their injuries, or better, be picked off by thosethingsthey’re so hell-bent on defending,” Dusaro snickers.

Ileana’s eyes sweep over to mine as if Dusaro’s remark reminded her of what I had shared with her of my adoptive transcendent family.

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