Page 27 of The Blood that Binds Us

I step into the carriage and stare at the black quilted walls of the coach, refusing to make eye contact with any of the guards sent with me to make sure no harm came to the Black Art’s precious spy.

Red stains my sight. I am not a puppet, and Sin doesnotpull my strings. I learned a valuable lesson today—the kingdom will never offer protection to my family, no matter what bargains I strike with its leader. I think it’s time the Black Art learns a lesson of his own tonight.

You donotpick a fight with a bloodwitch.

Wrath stirs in my stomach like a venomous snake. It slithers up my chest, down my arms, curls into my hands—itching for the opportunity to strike. And for once, I don’t shoo it back to its dark corner. I beckon to it with soft whispers—promises to let it feast—and a jolt of heat flies into my fingertips as it flicks its tongue in anticipation.

If I spill a drop of kingdom blood, I’ll be forced to spill it all. The second I raise a hand to anyone, the temporary truce I have with the Black Art will be over. Guards will be on me immediately, leaving me with only two outcomes, one of them resulting in my sudden death. The second option would be a bit gorier.

I’d paint every godsdamned wall in that forsaken castle with their blood.

Sin thinks he has me pinned in a corner, that I won’t fight back. If it was just me I was protecting—he is probably right. My life isn’t worth the risk of unleashingher—the bloodwitch known for her insatiable appetite. But this isn’t just about me anymore.

No one hurts my family.

I don’t wait for the driver to help me out when he pulls the horses to a stop. I throw open the door, hop out of the carriage, and storm up to the looming double doors of the castle. The two guards posted at the entrance open the doors for me without question, and I march past them with as much assertiveness as if I was the Lady of the castle.

It is late, and likely the servants have retired to their quarters for the night, but that doesn’t stop me from hollering into the empty foyer. “Singard!” I use his full name, partly because I am way too heated to be speaking something as casual as a nickname, and partly because it seemed to piss him off the last time I used it.

A dark head rounds the corner from the top of the stone staircase. Dusaro’s chilling glare might have frozen me in place yesterday, but tonight, I melt it with my own fiery stare.

“What in the gods’ names are you hollering about?” Dusaro asks with emphasized slowness.

“I need to speak with Singard.”

“It is late,girl. He will speak with you tomorrow.”

“I’m confident he’d prefer I inform him immediately of my findings with Mr. Langston. Take me to him.”

It’s not a complete lie. While my words to Dusaro suggest I have critical information to incriminate Bennett, the real reason for my urgency isn’t any less valid. I’m sure His Grace would want to know I’ve spent the ride back to the castle imagining how lovely my fingernails would look painted in his blood.

His eyes narrow slightly, and he studies me for a beat before saying, “He’s in the study.” Dusaro turns his back to me and flicks his head for me to follow him.

Easy enough.I follow him to the floor with the war room but instead of veering left, we head into the right wing. When I passed through here this morning, I wondered if this was where Sin stored whips and other devices to make a person spill their secrets. Now, with every clack of my heeled shoes against the stone floor, I imagine it is bones snapping undermyfeet.

Dusaro leads us to the end of the long corridor and pushes open a plain wooden door without knocking. The study is larger than the war room with a desk carved from a deep red wood at its center. A few burgundy rugs are laid tastefully around the floor, and two oversized brown leather chairs sit on the left wall next to a tall, arching window. Potted plants are placed in the corners of the room, the green foliage a pop of color in the otherwise dark space. Sin sits behind an art easel in the far corner of the room, opposite the wall with the comfortable looking chairs.

He exhales loudly at our intrusion. “What is she doing here?” He drops whatever was in his hand to the small table next to him and looks at his father, not bothering to even acknowledge my presence other than to ask about me.

“I want to speak with you. Alone,” I supply before Dusaro can answer for me.

I watch from my periphery as his father turns to look at me. “We don’t take demands from prisoners.”

“I think that’s for the Black Art to decide,” I snap. “And given Adelphia chose him and not you, you really needn’t concern yourself with the matter, do you?”

Dusaro’s eyes widen for a second, then sharpen into slits as he takes a step towards me, pointing his finger at my chest. “If you wish to live another day, girl, I strongly,strongly, beseech you learn to keep your mouth shut.”

“I’ll grant the request,” Sin interjects, sounding almost bored.

Dusaro mashes his lips together into a thin line before turning and storming out of the room, the black cape attached to his coat billowing out behind him.

Sin rises from the stool behind the easel and prowls over to the desk. He leans against it, the desk at his hips, and folds his arms across his chest. The room is cast in shadows, the candles flickering in the wall sconces the only light in the study. Under different circumstances, I might find the space cozy. He fixes his heavy stare on me, and I take it as my cue to start talking.

“Langston is clean. Like I said.”

Sin picks up a wine glass from the desk, takes a drink, then swishes the remaining liquid around in the cup. “What did he have to say about our friends?”

“He doesn’t believe Legion has allies. But he also made the fair point that if their allies were anygood, you wouldn’t know about them, would you? I’m not saying you’re wrong about Legion having a supplier, but the Langstons aren’t it.”

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