Chapter 14
Wickett
The strongest chains are forged not of steel, but of necessity.
The magical ribbon connecting the little witch to me throbbed like a damned heartbeat as we were led through the Nexus corridors. A steady reminder that my autonomy had been compromised by magical compulsion. Annoying as fuck, but not enough to prove a detriment.
The witch walked beside me in silence, but I could practically hear her thinking. She had that look... like she was memorizing everything as we walked.
Curious.
“Your quarters have been adjusted,” the guard announced as we reached the residential wing. “Binding protocols require proximity accommodations.”
The witch stopped walking. “Excuse me?”
“Magical tethers don’t permit greater distances. You are housed in adjacent holding rooms.”
“Holding cells, you mean?” Her voice carried that sharp edge I’d begun to anticipate.
The guard seemed to bite his tongue, likely unsure quite what to say.
“Even for the famed Ripper?” She looked my way, the dusting of freckles across her nose wrinkling as her face scrunched into a scowl.
The guard’s smile was mostly teeth. “Hunters. Witches. It’s all the same lock from the outside.”
“Welcome to my world, hunter,” she sneered. She looked like she wanted to say something more, but the practical reality was sinking in. Adjacent rooms. Shared space. Constant proximity.
I cut in with my standard authority over the lower ranks. “That won’t be necessary. Standard quarters will suffice.”
“I’m afraid not, Sir,” the guard replied, though he had the sense to look uncomfortable contradicting a Veyne. “Magistrate’s orders. Binding magic takes precedence over personal wishes.”
We had arrived at the one place I couldn’t command as I saw fit. My father.
We were led to a section I’d never seen before, two rooms connected by a common sitting area barely large enough for a table and two chairs.
The witch said nothing, but I could see the panic in her eyes.
The way her shoulders had stopped rising and falling.
The way she held her breath realizing she’d be sharing space with her future killer.
She didn’t protest aloud, though. Instead, she stepped away, her disdain more obvious than perhaps she would have liked.
Pain flashed across her face before she controlled it.
“The more you fight it, the closer it will bring us,” I reminded her again, keeping my voice level despite the way her pain response sparked my curiosity.
She seemed to barely register the poisoned waters in the first trial.
Interesting. “It’s basic magical theory. Resistance strengthens compulsion.”
“I’m not fighting it,” she argued, taking a step away.
I followed, leaning so close to her pretty face, I could almost hear the beat of her heart. “Must you lie, witch?”
The guard cleared his throat.
My head snapped toward him. “I’ve promised to kill her. How and when I choose to do that will be my design. I can assure you, it will not be without an audience, as I’m sure my father would prefer. You are dismissed. The little witch will live to see tomorrow.”
I stepped into the common area as the guard marched toward the exit. The space was barely habitable for one person, let alone two. “I refuse to share sleeping quarters. Either stop fighting so we can get some distance, or there will be no rest tonight for either of us.”
Her eyes flashed with the kind of fire that should have been dangerous but somehow wasn’t. “And here I thought you didn’t sleep.”
I held a neutral face, refusing to give where she demanded control. “I rest with my eyes closed. Now stop resisting so I can step into the other room.”
“I told you, I’m not resisting.” She kept her eyes on me but slowed her breathing.
I took a step back and then another, watching as she did the same. “Good. We understand each other.”
“Do we?” She tilted her head, studying me, those wild red curls falling down her shoulders. “Because five minutes ago you were telling me to stay close, and now you’re acting like I have some kind of contagious disease.”
“Five minutes ago we were in a life-or-death situation. This is different.”
“Different how?”
I opened my mouth to explain, then realized I didn’t have an answer that wouldn’t admit weakness. The truth was proximity during combat felt safe. Controllable. This—sitting across from each other in forced domesticity—felt like walking into an ambush.
“Different because now we have time to think,” I said finally.
Her smile was as sharp as her magic. “And thinking is dangerous?”
“With you? Probably.”
She moved to the left room. I took the right. The moment the distance exceeded fifteen feet, the magical ribbon went taut. Not painful, but insistent. Like a hand on the arm, constantly pulling.
I began my standard quarters assessment but found myself distracted by the sounds from her room. The way she tested the doorknob methodically. The ruffling of her blanket and pillow as she checked her bed. Even the sound of the bedside table sliding across the floor.
How many times had she been imprisoned? And why didn’t that knowledge sit well with me? Heavy footsteps in the corridor interrupted the thought. The Heartless One let himself into our rooms, his scarred face surveying the setup with obvious displeasure.
“Convenient,” he said, though his dark eyes suggested he found it anything but.
“Something you need?” I kept my voice neutral, though something about his protective stance irritated me more than it should have.
“Checking on my friend. Making sure she’s comfortable. And alive.”
The word ‘friend’ carried weight. History. The kind of loyalty that got people killed.
“She’s fine.”
“I’ll decide that for myself.” He settled against the wall like a guard dog claiming territory. “Hope you don’t mind the company. Feel free to go back to your corner, hunter.”
I minded. But starting a fight with the world’s most notorious assassin over who got to protect a witch seemed like poor tactical planning.
From her room, the witch’s voice carried warm affection. “Calder, you don’t have to—”
“I do.” Simple. Final. “Sleep well, Syn.”
Syn. The intimacy in that single syllable lingered. The Heartless One kept his vigil. Footsteps passed occasionally, guards on patrol, servants delivering meals, other personnel going about their duties. Normal compound activity.
I’d been reviewing tactical reports a subordinate had brought for perhaps an hour when different footsteps approached. Measured. Deliberate. Familiar.
My father appeared in my doorway.
I stood immediately, military precision in every line of my body. “Sir.”
Tiberius Veyne entered, his stern eyes sweeping every detail. The proximity of the rooms. The unlocked doors. The way the magical ribbon, now visible, connected our quarters like a chain.
“Interesting accommodations.” He stepped further into the room. “Explain.”
“Binding protocols, sir. Apparently, the tether can’t be stretched any farther than this.”
“I’m not asking about the housing arrangement. If you’ll remember, that was my order.” He moved closer, close enough that I could smell the leather of his gloves, the steel of his blades. “I’m asking about this.”
He grabbed my wrist, turning it to expose the Hunter’s Promise, the mark burned into my palm. The crescent moons mirrored each other like a brand of ownership. The one that matched hers.
“A Hunter’s Promise,” he continued. “Given in public. Care to explain why my son would make such a spectacularly foolish decision? That witch’s death should belong to whomever I decide. Not you.”
Training kept my spine straight, my voice steady. “Tactical necessity, sir. Other hunters were targeting her for elimination. The Promise keeps her the most useful to me.”
“Does it?” His grip tightened until I felt bones shift. “And you decided this without consultation? Without orders? Without consideration for how it appears?”
“I prioritized mission success over appearances.”
Wrong answer.
His backhand didn’t surprise me. It never did. The impact rattled through the common area, though neither of our guests would dare interrupt the Magistrate. Syneca was defiant, but not suicidal, I’d decided.
“Appearances matter. When my son claims a witch’s life without immediately taking it, people assume he’s gone soft. When he houses her in adjacent quarters, they whisper about compromise. When he protects her from other hunters, they question his loyalty.”
I straightened, tasting blood from where my teeth had cut the inside of my cheek. “My loyalty has never been in question.”
“Hasn’t it?”
“No, sir.”
His smile was cold. Detached. “Tomorrow, when you are announced a winner, when you go on to hunt the Phoenix—when you find her—you kill her. Personally. With your own blade. No hesitation. No mercy. No compromise.”
“Understood.”
“I certainly hope so.” He reached out, almost gently, to straighten my collar.
The gesture should have been paternal. Instead, it felt like a serpent testing whether to strike.
“Because I’ve spent thirty-four years molding you into the perfect weapon.
I won’t watch you dull yourself on a witch.
You slip and I’ll put you on heretic duty.
Do not disappoint me, Wickett. You know who will pay the price when you do. ”
The threat was one I’d heard a thousand times, but I kept my expression neutral.
He was right, of course. Sentiment was weakness.
Emotional attachment compromised judgment.
Everything he’d taught me about control, about duty, about the necessity of absolute focus, all of it was being tested by proximity to a witch who knew I was nothing more than a killer.
It’s what I’d been trained to be. What I was good at. The public mask was unwavering.
“I understand, sir.”
“Good.” He moved toward the door, then paused. “Oh, and son? The witch hears everything we say. These walls aren’t as thick as they appear. I hope she appreciates the lesson about where your true loyalties lie.”
The door closed behind him with final authority.
I stood in my room, blood still warm on my tongue, aware that every word of our conversation had carried to the other rooms. The witch would have heard my father’s expectations. His threats. My compliance.
She would know exactly what I was.
What I was meant to be.
What I would become when we found the Phoenix.
From the common room, the Heartless One’s voice cut through the silence. “Touching family moment.”
I ignored him, returning to my tactical reports.
But concentration proved elusive. The binding hummed between us, carrying something more than magic—awareness of her in the next room, the memory of how she’d fought in the maze, fury and desperation and that unwillingness to break.
Syneca Black’s presence pressed against my awareness like a weight I couldn’t shift.
This would be easier if she were less...
everything. Less fierce. Less compelling.
Less like someone I might have chosen if I’d been allowed to choose anything for myself.
But I wasn’t allowed. Had never been allowed. And sentiment was a luxury for men who weren’t born into legacies written in blood.
Tomorrow, Felix had to die. Then, the hunt of my lifetime would finally begin.