Page 8 of The Blood that Binds Us

“Easy there, little witch,” Sin sneers.

He glances up at the sky that has darkened into a muted purple. I evaded them for more than half the day; a valiant effort, but I wasn’t quick enough. “Set up camp. We’ll head back at sunrise,” he orders the other four.

He must have sent for his guards before coming after me, or maybe he only returned to the castle to fetch the iron, knowing it was now alittle witchhe was hunting, as he called me. The kingdom prides themselves on having a council of royal mages but looks down on any not born from a noble bloodline.Witchis a derogatory term, synonymous with dirty-blooded. A mage whose power wasn’t inherited.

He smacks the dirt from his pants and meets my glare with one of his own. “I suggest you settle in—we have a long night ahead of us.”

I barely hear the threat in his words over my pounding heart.

I should have let that arrow fly.

Sin hasn’t spoken since the others left to hunt supper. I sit with my back against a tree and watch as he creates a tinder nest and coaxes a fire to life—the smell of burning wood enough to emit a low rumble from my stomach, though I doubt I will be fed.

“As entertaining as it is to watch you pretend to be normal, why didn’t you just start a fire with magic?” I finally ask.

He pulls the dagger tucked against his hip and sits next to the fire, propping his elbow on his raised knee and stretching out his other leg. Sin ignores my question and begins shaving off strips of wood from the bundle of twigs he collected earlier. His eyes don’t leave his work, his hands moving quickly and efficiently to create the extra kindling. I steel my spine, my eyes tracking his dagger every time he expertly slides his blade across the dry wood. The scraping of metal on lumber pricks my ear—a warning he is practiced enough to land his blade dead center in my throat with a casual toss.

I shuffle against the tree and bite my lip as the chains rattle with my movement, the iron burning the delicate skin of my wrists. Iron stifles a mage’s ability to manipulate their surroundings—a purifying element—but it does nothing to stop me from flexing my collective andtastingthe energy around me. Bracing for the mental impact I felt the last time I explored his collective, I silently stroke his energy with my own, an ability only my kind possesses.

Curiosity. Ripe and blatant, likely him internally questioning who I really am and what I’m after. I press in further, spreading apart the layers of his mind with my own, scanning them quickly and undetectably. I dig deeper—and there—hidden somewhere in the center is…fear. My hold almost slips off its icy surface, but I dig in with mental talons and chip away at it for a closer look.

Heat consumes me. Not from the fire now climbing steadily before me, but frominsidehim. A surge of molten heat floods my core and coils through me—anger. Anger and…shame.

I sheathe my claws and let my collective spring back to its home behind my eye. He glances behind us, hearing something I don’t, and a few seconds later, the guards return carrying a few small game animals they rush to get roasting over the fire. They converse amongst themselves, but Sin remains quiet, busying himself with adjusting the spits above the fire before he crosses the camp and slumps to the ground next to me, pressing his back against the other side of my tree. I try not to straighten too much as his closeness teases the hair on my skin.

Keeping my posture as casual as I can muster, I say, “I suppose I am to starve since you intend on killing me anyway.”

He shoots me a sideways glance. “If I had decided on killing you, you’d already be dead.”

“Surely you can understand my hesitation in informing you of my abilities, Your Grace.”

“We have no fight with witches.”

I laugh once without humor and drop my eyes to where my wrists disappear behind my back.

“That isn’t because you’re a witch. That’s because you’re a witch working with the rebellion,” he says, a muscle feathering in his burnt umber cheek.

“I would rather you fillet and hang me from my feet to drip to death before I ever work with Legion. Do not insult my honor, Your Grace.”

He raises an eyebrow at me, and something like a smile twitches on his lips.

I turn to angle my body towards him. “Also, you can cut the witch speech. Just because I wasn’t born into a home of silken sheets and fine brandy does not mean my skill set is any less than. I study the art as much as any othermage. My bloodline is irrelevant.”

He leans closer and drops his gaze to slowly rake over my body as if he could assess my worth through my appearance. “Does that term bother you…witch?” he asks, flicking his tongue across his top lip as if the thought amuses him.

I swallow the urge to spit at him. “Thiswitchsaved your life.”

The mischievous glint vanishes from his eyes, and he moves closer, flattening his palm against the tree, inches from my head. “I keep asking myself why a Legion witch would have stopped that arrow. Tell me why.”

“Reflex. It isn’t in my nature to stand by idly while someone is attacked. You wouldn’t be familiar with the concept, Your Grace.”

His lips curl up into a wicked smile, and his green irises burn with fevered heat. “No. You want to know whatIthink happened? I think you knew they’d be out there, just waiting for the opportunity to plant an arrow in my back, but when it came down to it, you didn’t have the spine towatch.”

“Your Grace,” one of the guards calls, standing awkwardly between the fire and where we sit against the tree, holding a cooked slab of rabbit. Sin takes the skewered meat and doesn’t hesitate tearing off a chunk with his teeth.

I take a steadying breath. “Don’t blame me because you allowed yourself to become distracted, not even a day after they assaulted your outpost and—”

“Failedto assault,” he interjects.

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