Chapter 10 #2
It had been true; she hadn’t wanted him to die. He’d only been there so she could bury her coven sister after all. Her feelings had changed now, muddied by his violence and prejudice. Now, she wanted … she wanted …
No, he wouldn’t make a killer out of her, even if she hated him for all he was.
Even if he hated her for all she was.
“Exchanging our lifeforce was all I could think of,” Semras murmured. “I know how much it hurt you … I-I felt it when I took on your pain. But I had to lend you my strength before you fell. I had no time to be delicate about it.”
Velten grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at him. His fingers dug into her jaw like claws, and she shrugged to dislodge them.
Wide-eyed, he released her face. “You transferred vigour to me? You did not attempt to steal it from me?”
“No!” Her mind reeled from shock. “No, why would I even think to—?”
Horror dawned on his face, mirroring hers. The blank mask over his expression, the violence of his reaction, his accusations—it all made sense now.
“You thought I tried to kill you?” she asked. “Drain your life to bolster mine?”
“I … I thought—”
“I didn’t fail my weave, Inquisitor. I succeeded,” she said, seething. “And I’m weak now, incapable of fending you off because you wield my strength along with yours. Not because your threads slipped from my hands before I could steal them.”
The glade smelled of burnt wood, and fresh blood, and comforting petrichor. Stones of times immemorial loomed over them, a silent jury to witness the Trial of Semras of Yore. They waited for the final ruling.
Pinned to the forest floor, the witch stayed still. Soil and pebbles and blades of grass pressed against her back. She kept her breathing even, calm.
She could barely feel her heartbeat.
The inquisitor stared silently, then shut his eyes in a grimace of pain, dropping his face into the crook of her neck. A warm, shuddering breath blew against her ear.
Then a soft, nearly imperceptible voice whispered, “Lie to me.”
Semras shivered. “What did you—?”
He retreated to loom over her once more. “Have you …” He paused, throat bobbing. “… ever used mind control on a human?”
“No! Never! Do you really believe I could do such a thing?”
Estevan drew her into a tight embrace. Shaking arms held her against his blood-drenched chest. One hand buried in her hair, while another circled her waist to press her closer against him.
Semras let him have whatever he sought in her. She could feel his heart beating so, so fast.
Perhaps it was hers.
“I do not …” His hoarse voice trailed into a whisper. “I do not believe you would.”
Relief washed over her as stress receded from her body in a waning wave. A dam opened within her, and all the feelings she’d bottled until now poured out of control. Unbidden, tears fell down her cheeks freely.
Old Crone take her; he had seen her cry now. She had no dignity left. He had utterly shredded it to pieces and now watched the rest of it drip out of her puffy eyes.
Estevan cradled her face. He dared look concerned; it reignited her rage.
“What,” she said flatly.
“Did I scare you?”
“You’re cruel.”
He brushed away her tears. The warmth of his fingers sent a shiver down her spine.
“I will be crueller still before I am through with you,” he murmured. His face drew closer. Their breath mingled.
“Do your worst,” she hissed.
Estevan examined her face, his darting pupils taking in every little detail. In his indecipherable expression, Semras imagined regret and yearning.
“Oh,” he breathed. “I will.”
His lips captured hers suddenly, aggressively, hungrily. Estevan kissed her like a desperate man. A jolt of adrenaline speared through her, and she bit down on his lip. Her tongue tasted blood.
He retreated with a pained hiss. Mere inches away from her, she could see the heady desire clouding his gaze. “Wicked witch …” Pressing his thumb on her lips, he languidly spread the blood over her mouth. “You too are cruel.”
She beheld him. “We’ll destroy each other, won’t we?”
“Without a doubt.”
Grabbing his collar, Semras brought his lips back onto hers. He groaned, and a thrill shot through her as he leaned her down to the ground. His hands cupped her face, angling it to deepen their kiss.
Estevan Velten tasted like sin, like a forbidden fruit. Like partaking in a taboo. He was all that and so much more. She craved it all.
Among the ruins of a bygone era, soaked in blood and sweat, they kissed.
Fists grabbed hair. Nails dug into skin.
Limbs tangled with limbs as they rolled over the ground, refusing to submit to the other.
They kissed with anger, with fear, with hate.
High from volatile emotions, they used each other to expunge them all.
Her breath hitched as a cool, gloved hand slid down the curve of her breast. By reflex, she pushed the source of cold away from her heated skin.
Semras felt out of breath—and out of her mind. A part of her hadn’t wanted to stop him. To stop this, whatever it was.
Wincing, Estevan retreated from her. His hand hovered between them, then clamped around the golden Elumenra star fastened on his cloak. Eyes bright with lust and hunger, he watched her silently. His jaw twitched, lips vacillating between a snarl and a smirk.
She had been wrong—the inquisitor wasn’t a prudish man. He was a beast chained back by the insignia pinned on his cloak.
Estevan stood and stumbled a few steps away. As soon as her shaking legs let her, she followed him up, dusting dirt off her dress as best as she could.
He eyed her, and his hunger vanished behind a veil of impassivity. “This was a mistake,” he declared.
Semras stepped closer, looked him up and down, and then slapped him. Red lines formed on his cheek, courtesy of her nails. Pearls of blood oozed out of her handiwork.
“We agree on something at long last,” she replied, sneering.
The inquisitor stood still. Raising his hand slowly, he swept the blood on his face into thin crimson streaks, then looked down at his fingers.
Against the red leather, only a glister betrayed the presence of blood.
Estevan lifted his eyes to her, and Semras slowly stepped backward, grinning in provocation. Baiting him.
Do something, beast, she thought. Snap the chain.
Be wild.
Be free.
Her bare back hit a standing stone. She pressed her hands against it, eyes still fixed on the inquisitor. This was a mistake, yes—and this was revenge. She’d show him just how fallible he was.
Estevan snapped. In mere seconds, he caught up to her and buried his hand in her hair. He tugged on a fistful of her strands, and she lifted her chin, exposing her neck to his silent demand. Their bodies melted together, pinning her against the menhir. All rational thoughts had fled from her mind.
His lips attacked her neck, devouring her skin with kisses and nips.
Semras submitted to the onslaught with a smirk on her lips. He was just like her: feral, untamed. He had no pedestal to stand upon now.
Then his teeth sank into the crook of her neck, and she cried out. He broke skin. Drew blood. The pain abated, but Estevan held on until she stopped squirming. An appreciative groan welcomed her obedience, and he peppered light kisses onto the wound.
Her oversensitive skin could endure no more. She shoved him away.
Lips drawn back into a satisfied leer, Estevan stepped back. “Blood for blood,” he drawled.
His damned smirk. She would shatter his teeth. One by one.
In the post-rain haze, Estevan looked breathtaking.
Blood smeared his lips and his cheek. His pale blue eyes sparkled against his dark tanned skin, and his collar, halfway undone in a way she didn’t remember being responsible for, revealed part of his muscled chest. Blood and ashes had once painted whorls on her skin; they now tainted his white shirt with reddish-grey.
Framed by his dark burgundy cloak, he looked like a feral, triumphant beast.
Semras shuddered. He looked like a witch hunter.
The realization sobered her instantly. What had she been thinking? He was nothing like her. He could never be like her.
She held his gaze without a word. They had said all they needed already—with bites and kisses and blood. A litany of words, chanted repeatedly at the back of her mind, carved themselves into her heart: Inquisitor Velten was a cruel, manipulative, ruthless witch hunter.
And he—
He dusted the bloody ashes off his shoulder cloak. His gaze affected disinterest as she walked past him, a mask concealing—or slipping, revealing, perhaps—his true nature.
“The Inquisition finds you innocent of the crimes you have been accused of, Witch Semras of Yore,” he proclaimed in a detached, neutral tone. “May you remain so.”
Jaw clenched, Semras bristled in place, then grabbed her bag and kept walking away without glancing back.
—and he would lead her to damnation with a smirk on his lips.