Chapter 27
S ometimes I prefer the savage warlord version of Sin. That Sin is cold, calculating, and downright ruthless. That version is easy for me to stand tall against, to push back when he pushes forward.
That Sin was easy to shove away. Easy to hurt .
But this version, the one who calls for cold linens when I have a headache, massages my shoulders when they’re knotted, tends to my every need without me asking, but would stomp a man’s teeth into stone if they hurt me… that Sin is much harder to push away. Because I don’t want to. Not when every part of me yearns to entwine my mind and body with him so completely.
But I can’t, and the worst part is that I can’t tell him why I’m pushing him away, leaving his mind to whirl with thoughts darker than pitch. There is a lot of blood on my hands, but abandoning Sin in his darkest hour will always be my most heinous crime of all.
I spend the afternoon helping load up the final wagons with vibrant fall arrangements to be carted to the city, but I cannot stall returning to our bedchamber any longer.
He’s adjusting the ties of his leathers when I enter, and his eyes flash to meet mine in the mirror. A sly smile turns his lips upwards, and my traitorous heart stutters at the sight of him. He’s dressed in a black leather cuirass, four buckled straps clasped across the front. Matching bracers cover his forearms, and his twin swords are strapped across his back, above fitted black pants that conform to his muscular thighs and backside in all the right places. I don’t know if it’s customary for the Black Art to be so openly armed at events like these, but I understand why he bears his weapons with no concealment. For the first time, the Black Art is without Adelphia’s blessing, and many might view this appearance as an opportunity to try to usurp the shifter king once and for all.
As if I’d ever allow that to happen. Sin instills fear in many, but even the Black Art himself pales in comparison to the wrath that simmers in my veins when I even think about someone hurting him.
He crosses the room, his hands immediately finding my hips. “Tonight will be the first time you are at my side in the public eye. And I hope it is the last time you are at my side without our spirits Bonded and my Mark on this beautiful neck,” he murmurs, lifting one hand to skim the backs of his knuckles down the column of my throat. He tilts his head, his mouth hovering inches from mine, our breath mingling in the space between our lips. I swallow hard, refusing to close that distance.
He tightens at that swallow, the hand still on my hip gripping harder as if he is worried I’ll slip away altogether. “Are you nervous?” he asks, and I hear the edge in his words, his hope that my rigidness can be chalked up to overzealous nerves.
“The people fear me.” News travels fast on the isle, especially from the loose lips of lords and ladies of established Houses. It is likely all of Aegidale has heard the rumors that the Black Art has returned to his throne with the white-haired witch at his side, but most certainly, all of Blackreach has.
“As they should,” Sin responds. Then moving the hand on my neck to tilt my chin up with one finger, he continues. “The memory of how you looked when you walked through those gates during the battle of Blackreach is forever imprinted in my mind. For the first time, I truly understood why my people have hunted your kind to near extinction. Because you were terrifying, love. I saw the bloodwitch. I saw you . And never have you been more beautiful than when you were covered in the blood of our enemies.” His hand moves to cup my jaw, my head tilted back to look into his forested eyes.
Heat spears me, in both my heart and treacherous cunt, desperate to cling to his words, to cling to him.
“It is not bad for your subjects to fear you. I wish I could tell you that your life will forever be unthreatened after we convince Torin we are not the aggressors he suspects, but when you’re of a station like this, there will always be those looking to plant a knife into your back the second you turn yours to them. Fear is what will earn them your respect. They will come to know your heart in time, little witch, but first you must show them your teeth.”
He’s not wrong. Perhaps a year ago—hell, a few months ago—I would have thought it barbaric to find comfort in fear-stricken eyes as they beheld me. But that was before I helped slaughter Legion, before my family was forced to abandon their home, before we were attacked in the Vale, before I became consort to the Black Art. Now, it is the legacy of the bloodwitch that may just be my saving grace after all.
I capture my bottom lip between my teeth and nod, stepping around him to walk to the armoire. His hand catches my arm, vicing around my bicep.
“Something is wrong,” he says knowingly. “Tell me what.”
I look at him, my eyes narrowing without my permission. “There is nothing wrong; I just need to get dressed for the festival.”
“Wren.” He half growls my name, and the hair on my neck snaps to attention at the sound of it. Because there it is. The gap in his armor, the slipping of his mask. He’s growing tired of me dodging him and pretending like I’m not. “Something is amiss. I just want to know what so that I can fix it. Whatever it is, tell me, and I will make it right.”
I force my breath to remain steady, to not give in to my pleading heart that begs for me to cut open my flesh and bare my bleeding organ to him. But he is not doing us any favors with the seer by standing this close to me, swearing promises to tend to my every whim. He needs to back off, and he needs to do it now. “I said there is nothing wrong. Now, let go of me,” I bark the words, and as much as I yearn to take them back, I will steel into my spine instead, looking pointedly at where Sin’s hand is wrapped around my bicep.
A part of me wishes he would fight back. Refuse to let me go, yank me to his chest and demand I tell him the truth. That he’d lose his battle with his temper and lock me in this room until I spilled my secrets, threaten my heart with the tip of his dagger until I ripped it from my own chest and offered it to him for inspection.
Sin does none of those things.
He releases my arm instead, and something very close to fear eclipses his face. He smooths it over in a second, but not before I glimpse him. The face of a burning man, one who fears his mad queen has fallen out of love with him.
He clears his throat, but there is something deeper in the sound, like he was clearing something lodged deep in his chest cavity. “It’s about the Bonding?” he asks. “I didn’t mean to… it wasn’t my intention to frighten you off by confessing how intense my feelings for you have become. If you are not ready to”—he hesitates, as if forcing his mouth to make room for his next words—“ commit to me, I can understand.”
Sin pauses, gauging my reaction with his transcendent senses, searching for resentment in my face, listening for a betrayal in my heartbeat. It’s not the pain in his eyes, or the desperation in his grip when he grabbed me, that has my spine melting like someone doused it with alchemist fire. It’s the crack in his voice, his hurt splintering the shield he so rarely lowers.
“We’re in the middle of war, Sin,” I say. “It would be distasteful to hold such a ceremony when so many lives have been lost and will continue to be lost until this is over. That is all.”
“There doesn’t have to be an audience,” he says. “Wren, I don’t need grand displays, or a gala in our honor, or any of that. I just need you. It’s always just been you.”
Goddess, why does he have to pick now to be so sweet? After months of being at each other’s throats, he picks when I most need him to be an utter ass to me to open up and present his vulnerabilities to me on a velvet pillow.
But I know why.
Because Singard Kilbreth, the reaper of hearts and bone, has fallen for the white-haired witch, the wielder of blood and torment. Perhaps a match made in the heavens, for only the gods could have desired such a dark and baneful match.
“Sin, it’s not that,” I whisper.
“Then what?” he demands, another half growl.
I tear my eyes away from his when I answer, unable to look at him because I’m a fucking coward. “I can’t tell you,” I say lowly, hating the shards of guilt that puncture my voice. “Not yet. And I’m sorry for that, but I need you to trust me. Just give me time, and I will work this out, but it’s something I need to do on my own.”
He says nothing. When several moments endure and he still hasn’t spoken, I dare a glance at him. His face is all hard lines and angles, his chin tilted up, and he’s staring down at me from under his lashes with an expression I can’t quite read. I don’t think I want to.
Finally, he nods and heads for the door. “I thought we would be arriving at the festival together, but I see I was mistaken.” He opens the door but pauses in the threshold, his shoulders rising and lowering slowly as if forcing himself to take a breath. He turns his head to speak over his shoulder but keeps his eyes cast downward. “Our dais will be in the market center. You should make an appearance at the very least. If you can find it in yourself to be that close to me.”
He leaves then, the door sealing behind him with an audible click. I don’t waste time heading for the armoire and throwing open the doors with more force than necessary, thumbing through the assorted dresses that hang from velvet hangers. I choose an off-shoulder, floor length dress that’s a shade deeper than sunset. I slip into it, the pleated waist showing off my hips and the high slit drawing attention to my right thigh.
After brushing cosmetics on my cheeks, lips, and eyelids, I pin the top half of my hair back with the comb Vox gifted me, the delicate rubies giving my tresses the appearance of blood-spritzed snow. Strapping a pair of gold heeled shoes to my ankles, I blow out a breath and head outside to find an empty carriage already waiting for me.