Chapter 18
The air inside the forest cell was thick with the scent of damp earth and sap, the musky sweetness of decaying leaves mingling with the crisp sharpness of freshly snapped bark.
Hazelton barely noticed it; his attention was focused on the witch.
Bethany’s breathing was uneven, her anger rolling off her in waves, palpable even in the stillness of the cell.
Her wrists strained against the coarse, twisting vines that restrained her, and her hair was mussed from her struggle, a few strands plastered to her sweat-dampened brow.
“You won’t get away with this!” Bethany snapped, her voice taut with fury and desperation. Her caramel-colored eyes burned with defiance, locking onto Hazelton with an intensity that made his pulse skip.
Hazelton laughed, a low, guttural sound.
“All evidence to the contrary?” he mocked, stepping closer. The rich, smoky scent of charred wood from a tree he’d struck earlier lingered in the air, a reminder of his recent triumph.
Leaning in until he was mere inches from Bethany’s face, his voice dropped to a venomous whisper. “I have you under my control. You’re mine, and all of your power is mine.”
Bethany froze, her eyes narrowing. For a moment, her expression shifted, and Hazelton felt something—a strange sensation, like a gentle tug deep within him, as if she were trying to reclaim what he’d stolen.
Panic flared in his chest, and he stumbled back, his heart pounding.
He wasn’t sure what she was doing, but it scared him.
“Don’t do that again!” he barked, his voice cracking slightly. Straightening his suit jacket with a sharp jerk, he glared at her, his earlier confidence shaken.
Bethany huffed, her lips twitching into what looked suspiciously like a smirk. “What’s the matter, demon? Afraid of a little witch?”
Her words dripped with sarcasm, but her calm facade only infuriated him further. He retreated a few more steps, unwilling to risk whatever strange magic she’d been attempting.
“Sorcia will find you,” Bethany warned, her voice low and steady, her confidence slicing through his like a blade. “And when she does, you won’t even be a whiff of dust in this world.”
Hazelton’s fury reignited, but beneath it, he couldn’t ignore the thrill coursing through him. Was it her power? Was this what witches felt like all the time? He didn’t know, but he craved more.
“Your priestess isn’t going to help you, witch!” he snarled, pointing to another cell made of twisted tree limbs and gnarled roots. “She’ll be right there, imprisoned just like you.”
With that, he turned on his heel and stalked away, his shoes crunching against the bits of broken bark and leaf litter scattered across the ground.
For good measure, he pointed at a nearby tree and sent a crackling bolt of electricity into its trunk.
The tree shuddered violently, a gaping black wound spreading outward from the impact.
Hortense gasped and hurried to the tree, her neon-green eyes blazing with fury.
She placed her hand over the charred bark, her fingers trembling as she stroked it gently.
“So sorry,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.
She tried to ease the tree’s pain, murmuring soothing words under her breath, but the hole remained.
The bark’s life-giving channels were severed, dooming the tree to a slow death.
Her eyes followed Hazelton’s retreating figure, her glare searing into his back.
“You bastard,” she muttered under her breath.
Her hands curled into fists, the roughness of the tree’s damaged surface biting into her palms. If he didn’t deliver on his promise of funding to restore her forest, Hortense would release the witch.
Then she’d let her precious trees exact their vengeance.
Not many understood how fiercely trees could fight when they were hurt, but Hazelton Birchsmire would learn. One way or another.