Chapter 6
I hurry my steps when I hear his voice on the stairs. Cold, biting… cruel. I’ve seen Sin in foul moods before, but rarely have I seen him truly angry. The Black Art has nearly perfected his mask of calm collectedness, even when he is seconds from driving his fist through something or someone, but I hear it in his voice now. Sin’s mask is slipping.
The dark mage is furious.
I step onto the main deck, directly into the storm hovering between Sin and his mother. He faces away from me, the fabric of his black shirt pulled taut across his wide shoulders, accentuating the hard lines of muscle along his back. Vox is the only one wearing his leathers today, but it is a rare occasion to catch the commander not dressed for battle.
Sin’s shoulders rise and fall with tight breaths, and I turn my attention to Sera, who has just finished saying something when I step out of the stairwell. Her dark hair is tied back, the roundness of her cheeks on full display, and her already thin lips reduce further.
“You possessed no such authority to invite him,” Sin says lowly, “and you are more delusional than I thought if you ever expected me to stand aside and allow that traitor onto this ship.”
“Traitor is a harsh word, Singard,” Sera begins, but she cuts off promptly when Sin rushes her.
“He left her to burn, ” he growls, his voice a dark and raspy thing.
My breath catches with realization. He can only be talking about?—
I whip my head toward the coast and find the male bloodwitch already watching me. His lips twitch in a half-smile, but it doesn’t meet his eyes which are swirling with a mix of arrogance and apathy. Though, something about Alistair’s posture tells me he isn’t nearly as self-assured as he’s projecting right now.
Alistair continues approaching the ship, but he’s still a fair distance away. I flick my tongue against the roof of my mouth, unsure how I feel about him after he left me in that ravine.
“He had no choice, Singard. What would you have had him do instead? Burn alive with her? What would that have accomplished other than to take out two of our assets?”
“My wife is not an asset!” he shouts, his upper body now trembling with the need to shift.
Sera straightens, steeling her spine as she lifts her chin and says, “She is not your wife.”
Sin stops shaking. Actually, he goes so rigid that concern spears me, and I almost go to him, but halt when he chuckles softly to himself, the sound highlighted with something dark and feral. “But she will be, and you will bow before her, alongside your bastard husband. Which you both will do, should you wish to continue breathing the same air she does.”
“Do not be blinded by something as transient and fleeting as love, son.”
I grind my teeth, flexing my hands as my collective hums in my palms, begging to chuck Sera into the sea and the minacious beasts that lurk within its depths.
“Not everyone views love through a conditional lens, Seraphine. She may not yet be my consort by title, but she is more my wife now than you have ever been my mother. ”
Pain lashes across her face as if Sin cracked it with a whip. He might as well have, for that sting would hurt less than the one evident in Sera’s expression now.
“Don’t flatter me by saying all this commotion is about me,” comes Alistair’s mockery, a touch too forced. He’s a few feet from the plank, though I’ll be surprised if he actually steps a toe onto it with the wrath emanating from Sin when he turns to face the bloodwitch.
I’ve wrestled with my feelings about Alistair since waking in the temple. While rage burned through me initially when I remembered what he’d done, understanding quickly snuffed out that heat. The Vale was a blazing beast that night, and it was hell-bent on devouring everything in its path. Alistair wasn’t going to be able to get me out of that ditch, not before the fire claimed us both. It is selfish to expect him to have done more.
My betrothed feels otherwise.
No one seemed to know why Alistair disappeared after the attack, but I’d wager everything I own that it was to avoid the Black Art’s anger.
Sin is more beast than man when he stalks towards the plank, each of his steps echoing death. He stops at the boat’s edge, his right hand clenching at his side. “Get off this isle before I erase you from it permanently.” Sin’s warning is low, but it carries the weight of a thousand double-edged swords.
Alistair has the nerve to chortle.
“Are you going to whisk me away?” He makes a show of flicking his wrist. “Please, feed me to the sharks so I may meet your goddess, and we can laugh about how you managed to lose the power she embedded inside you. I don’t know if you’re still considered royalty at this point, but you sure as hell royally fucked up, Lord Kilbreth.” Alistair flashes a facetious smirk at the use of the title, the one he knows will coax a reaction from him—for the obvious jab that Sin is fighting to secure his title as Black Art without the goddess’s blessing to support his station. But it’s the second reason that has every hair on my body spiking to attention.
Lord Kilbreth is his father’s title.
Alistair steps onto the plank, but Sin is already there. He shoves the brow sideways, dumping Alistair into the gelid sea below.
“Singard!” Sera scoffs, rushing to the edge and lowering one of the cargo nets towards the mop of dark hair that breaks through the surface. The others shuffle nervously, but no one approaches them. A few elves lingering on that side of the deck actually move farther away, crossing to the other side with a forced casualness to their steps.
Sera grabs Alistair’s hand and pulls him to the boat, and I smirk to myself that not a single person rushes to either of their aid. I’m always grateful to not be in Cathal’s presence, but even more so today, because I have no doubt Sin would be unable to tolerate the ex-Legion Commander right now.
Cathal is on a different vessel—one of the few that will serve as a blockade in the waterway to keep Langston’s ships from retreating. He was so concerned with addressing the war in the water first, it seems fitting that Vox assigned him to that crew, though I’m certain Vox simply wanted him out of his plaited blond hair.
Alistair vaults himself over the ledge and lands in the boat with a heavy thud, water streaming down his face and pooling into his already soaked clothing. I smile at the pink scar marring his cheek, remembering how lovely his essence sang to me when I split his flesh with the blood whip he conjured that day on the bridge. Scars from blood magic aren’t easily healed. Sin had lifted the nasty lacerations that had braceleted my forearm from when I stopped the whip from connecting with it’s intended target, but neither he or Aeverie would remove the scar from Alistair.
As they shouldn’t have. He deserves to be reminded every day of the time he thought to raise a hand to me and mine.
It all happens so quickly.
Flames spark to life in my palms as Alistair lunges for Sin, but he doesn’t make it two steps before Vox’s sword comes arcing down in front of Sin’s chest, sending Alistair to an abrupt halt in front of the elven commander’s blade. My eyes drop to the twin swords strapped across Sin’s back and note how they haven’t slid an inch from their scabbards. It’s then I assess his stance and take in the slight crouch to his knees and how his shoulders have rolled forward. A bloodwitch had charged him, and he was going to take him on with fists and magic alone.
Worry spreads through me at that. With the blessing, the Black Art’s magic was nearly insurmountable. Without it, Sin’s talent for destruction magic is still mighty, but if the gold ringing Alistair’s irises is any tell, he’s fed recently, his power already heightened and agitated. The image sickens my stomach, to think of my kind picking off humans to sate our wretched appetites. Or perhaps the bloodwitch expected his return to be unappreciated by the Black Art, and he was taking measures to be able to protect himself. Sin may have lost the goddess’s blessing, but he’s still a living, breathing incarnate of death.
A lifetime of repressing his transcendence left Sin without his shifter skin to protect him. So, he trained instead. For years. Honing his swordsmanship into mastery, and molding his body into that of a reaper.
Before Sin was the Black Art, he was a warlord. And now more than ever, those identities overlap.
“I approved his name on the roster,” Vox states. He doesn’t elaborate, not that I’m sure he would even if prompted. It doesn’t surprise me. After all, it wasn’t Vox that Alistair left to burn alive in the bottom of a ravine.
I inertly scold myself for the thought. He didn’t have a choice, and I know it.
There’s a slurping sound, and then Alistair spits at the Black Art’s feet. Well, it’s intended for Sin, but it plops onto the deck in front of Vox in a bubbly glob. “My, how you’ve changed,” the bloodwitch drawls, drilling a glower past the commander and directly into my betrothed. “Hiding behind elves while you sail across the sea to pick a fight with daddy dearest over who gets to sit in the fancy chair.” He chuckles darkly, his attention flitting across the ship at the onlookers who have gathered nearby but remain quiet. “They’re just waiting to sink their blades in your back the second you lose focus. Perhaps you should reconsider your allies.”
Sin takes a deliberate step to his left, skirting around the commander in a subtle dismissal. Vox shoots him a stern look but lowers his sword, though his hand continues to grip it firmly at his side. “You mean to caution me on alliances when you are loyal to none?” Sin asks, his tone dripping with venom.
Water streams from Alistair’s hair into his eyes, but he doesn’t wipe it away. “I am a creature of death. I have no dalliance with man.”
Sin’s head cants to the side, the movement snappy and feral. “A creature of death,” he parrots, his infliction insinuating he finds dark amusement in such a title. “And yet, my blade will pierce your heart as easily as any other.”
“We’re all mortal, mate,” Alistair volleys. “But my legacy will long outlive my flesh. Drunkards will be singing hymns about me, about the mage who could clot the blood in your heart with a single look. Death does not exist for me, not truly. Not like it does for them”—he nods at the crowd of elves and transcendents—“not like it does for you.” Alistair runs a slender hand through the wet curls that have slipped into his sight, pushing them back onto his thatch of dark hair. He huffs a humorless laugh and licks his lips before meeting Sin with a death glare. “And not like it will for your bitch.”
The sound of crunching bone rends the air.
Sin strikes faster than lightning, his fist connecting with Alistair’s face before any of us have time to react. Alistair stumbles backwards, nearly falling off his feet with the force of Sin’s punch, but he recovers quickly with a lash of destruction. Sin springs a ward between his hands, halting the surge before it spirals into his gut, but Alistair charges, gripping Sin by the waist while his hands are forced to propel the magic away from him.
The two go careening across the deck, Alistair’s weight forcing Sin’s shoulders into the faded wooden floorboards. A flash of blue light, and the bloodwitch shackles the Black Art’s wrists by his head with phantom restraints. My magic sparks in my palms as Alistair lands a punch into the side of Sin’s jaw. I storm forward, ready to unleash myself into the male bloodwitch, but halt as I meet resistance.
I jerk my head up, meeting Vox’s dark eyes as he shakes his head. Despite his stoic features, he expresses so much in one stern look. The commander has always advocated for allowing disagreements to be settled in a more… primal manner. I remember he cautioned Aeverie once, when she reprimanded him for allowing Sin and Eldridge to go a round in their second skins, citing the benefits of friendly grappling in transcendent culture. While I respect Vox for honoring their traditions, we both know there was nothing friendly in the ring that day.
But he is right. This isn’t a fight Sin is going to walk away from, and he is more than capable of defending himself. Not that Alistair intends to do more than provoke him anyway. Arrogant as all hell, yes, but he’s not dumb enough to try to assassinate the Black Art while he’s at least temporarily allied with the elves. I snuff the sparks in my hands, and Vox removes his hand from my stomach, stepping aside.
Sin doesn’t waste time trying to pull at the invisible restraints binding his arms. He twists underneath Alistair instead, using his own weight as leverage to press a muscled thigh into the side of the bloodwitch’s hip, effectively knocking him off-kilter. Alistair reaches for the dagger strapped to that same side, but he can’t slip it free from its sheath, the Black Art’s weight trapping it on his hip.
Sin maneuvers himself in a way only experience allows, using his thigh to force Alistair back just enough for him to bring his other leg up between them.
He delivers a kick straight to the bloodwitch’s gut.
My own stomach clenches as I watch the air escape him, Alistair’s face screwed in agony as he’s launched onto his back several feet away, his head and shoulders colliding with the deck in an audible thump . The tethers on Sin’s wrists must go slack because he yanks his hands free and rights himself in an instant. A deep growl rattles in his chest as he stalks towards Alistair who’s now clutching his hands to his shattered bone cage. He needs a healer immediately, to assess for a collapsed lung.
Sin could have killed him.
While I don’t particularly care if Alistair dies or not, by Sin’s hand or any other, I refuse to allow it to be because of what happened in the Vale. Alistair was presented with a choice the night of Torin’s attack: save himself, or risk us both burning alive.
I don’t fault him for leaving me.
I skirt around Vox, who lets me pass uninterrupted this time, surely noting the lack of magic or blades in my hands. The Black Art is nearly at Alistair’s feet when I press my hand to his sculpted back.
I’m thrown backwards.
My shoulders slam into the wall adjacent to the stairwell, and I let out a strangled gasp as Sin pins me there with his forearm lodged against my throat. His pupils dilate, expanding into vertical, feline slits within the irises that have taken on a yellow hue. I squirm under his grasp, desperate to ease the pressure on my airway, and Sin responds with a growl so deep and guttural, I’m certain he’s moments from shifting completely. His nostrils flare slightly as he leans towards me, his breath hot and ragged against my face.
“Release her at once,” comes Vox’s voice from somewhere behind him, and I catch the glimmer of metal in my periphery that can surely only be the tip of the commander’s sword pressed to Sin’s back.
He ignores him completely, his fevered eyes locked wholly on mine, his lips splitting to brandish a pair of extended canines. Black spots swim across my vision, and I stop moving, allowing myself to go limp beneath the forearm he holds firm against my jugular. Squirming will only further his instincts, present me as a flighty rabbit trapped under the paw of a starved wolf. Magic roars in my palms, but I keep it vaulted within my flesh, not allowing any flames to find purchase in my hands.
I don’t want to use my magic. Not just because I don’t want to hurt him, but if I have to use my power to break free, Sin will never forgive himself. He will stop on his own. He will. He must .
I say his name.
It comes out as nothing more than a breathless squeak, but it’s enough. For a moment, his pupils war between reducing and dilating, his head cocking to the side as if to better assess me. That movement, his head canting with his mane of long hair flowing over his shoulders, his feline eyes trained on me while the pearly tips of his canines peek through his parted lips… he looks completely feral.
“Sin, it’s me,” I whisper again, the sound strained beneath his arm.
My voice is a rainstorm to his conflagration.
His eyes drop to where his forearm is still lodged against my throat, and he drops it immediately. An unintentional whimper escapes me as my chest and airway swell with breath, and a look of horror eclipses the Black Art’s face.
“I’m sorry,” he breathes, his features twisting in pain with the realization of what he has done. “I’m so sorry.” His words are so low I might not have heard him if I wasn’t watching him intently. Both his hands come to the wall on either side of my head, and he tilts his forehead down to rest against mine.
From somewhere behind him, I hear the unmistakable sound of metal sliding through leather, followed by Vox’s footsteps leading away. Someone calls for a healer—there are several amongst the crew—and a long groan cleaves the air. Alistair growls something, but it’s too low for me to make out what he says. Sin ignores it entirely, his focus now wholly on our feet, all traces of his anger for Alistair seemingly abandoned.
My heart throbs in my chest at the sight of him like this. I don’t need to pry into his collective to feel the pain swimming through him.
“It’s alright,” I whisper.
That ignites him again, and his gaze flicks up to mine. If I wasn’t working to keep my movements so controlled right now, I might have gasped from the sheer intensity of it. His beast has returned, but this time, its fury is directed at himself. “It is never alright for me to put my hands on you like that.”
I pause before responding. It’s still strange for me to hear such affections on his tongue after our violent and tumultuous history. There was a time when Sin and I put our hands on each other frequently, but not in the same way we do now. Though I’d be a liar to deny that sexual tension always hummed between us, even when the shadows between us were at their darkest, our own vile bedtime hymn.
“You’re right—it isn’t.”
Voices carry around us as feet shuffle every which way, the incident already a fading memory to the crew that continues loading the last of the trunks into the storage compartments underdeck and completing the final readiness tasks. We’re on a crowded vessel, but my awareness reduces to this moment, to Sin hovering over me with his arms on either side of my head. To ground himself, not to cage me in.
“You should have thrown me off you,” he growls, leashed hostility in his voice.
“I would have, but I didn’t need to. I knew you’d stop.”
His hand slams into the wall, but I don’t so much as flinch. I have no reason to—he’s not trying to frighten me. “I didn’t even know who you were for a moment, Wren. I could see you, but I couldn’t… see you. Fuck, ” he snarls, running that same hand through his wind-swept hair.
“Look at me,” I whisper. I grab his chin when he doesn’t and steer his fevered glare back to me. “Right now, I see you. You, Singard, not the instincts, not the temper. They are all merely a part of you now. They always have been, they’ve just been buried deep down, and that isn’t your fault. None of this is your fault.”
“I could have hurt you.” His voice is choked, as if his words are barbed. He returns his hand to the wall by my head and leans forward to press his forehead to mine. I let go of his chin, and he releases a deep breath, closing his eyes. “Forgive me, love.”
We stay like this for a few moments, neither of us moving, neither of us speaking. And yet, so much is said between us. His heat envelops me. Sin’s temperature has been running warmer lately, a part of him always reaching for his second skin, and the change has been intoxicating. Even his scent has shifted slightly—spicier, and more woodsy.
I resist the urge to arch into him, to feel more of his warmth pressed against me. It’s Sin who’s been straining to rein in his instincts, but I often feel as feral as him, my own drive running wild. Sin has become an addiction, my entire body longing for him like it very well might experience withdrawal if it doesn’t have him near me, on me, inside me.
Both our heads snap up when a pair of quiet footsteps suddenly approach us. Vox is looking only at me, not a single blond hair out of place from their freshly twisted plaits. I resist the urge to grab him by them and chuck him overboard.
“As I was saying, blood mage.” His words are nonchalant, but I don’t miss the weight behind them. Neither does Sin, but to his credit, he says nothing as the elf carries on down towards the storage hold. I swallow my own bile, the insinuation of his words not lost on me.
Needs run high… carnal needs, Wren.