Captive #2
In response, he reaches out, slow and deliberate, and brushes his fingers along my cheek.
I flinch back before I can stop myself. “Is that necessary?”
“Why do you shy away?” His hand drops, but his gaze lingers.
“Because I don’t like it.”
“Being touched?”
“By you, yes.”
A crease forms between his dark brows as he studies me closely, as though reassessing. “By me,” he repeats thoughtfully, “or anyone?”
“Does it matter?” I shift my weight, refusing to give ground.
Brows furrowed, he says, “I wouldn’t ask a question I don’t want the answer to.”
“Just because you ask doesn’t mean I’ll give you the answer.”
He chuckles softly, the sound low and amused. “I can tell we are going to get along splendidly.”
The glare I’ve been fixing on him hardens. “If you say so. I somehow doubt that.”
“It’s sarcasm, little one.” His head inclines. “Or is that not a language you speak?” His gaze drifts from my eyes to my mouth and stays there a heartbeat too long. “Do you speak other languages?”
“Why do you ask?” My jaw tightens.
“Because I’m curious about you.” He steps closer, slow enough to give me time to retreat—though I do not, since my present situation restricts movement and hopping is out of the question.
“You have watched me for quite some time, yet I know very little about you. Where did you come from? What are you here to do? How are you the way you are?” His eyes flick briefly toward my collar, toward the hidden markings beneath. “What do all the symbols mean?”
My lips press into a thin line. I say nothing and only meet his stare.
“Let’s add stubborn to the list, shall we?”
I do not dignify that with a response.
The grin returns, lopsided this time, one corner of his mouth lifting higher than the other. “Beautiful, but stubborn, and dare I say defiant too. Did your daddy not love you enough as a child?”
Irritation and fury flash through me. “I had no father. Or at least not in that way.”
“That explains quite a lot, actually.”
It’s my turn to smile, though there’s no warmth in it. “Does it? Then there you are. You have me all figured out.”
“Hardly.” His gaze roams over me. “What should I call you? Do you have a name?”
“Call me whatever you like.” I lift a shoulder in a dismissive shrug. “It makes no difference to me.”
“No?”
I hold his stare unflinchingly.
“You won’t give me your name?”
“No.”
He studies me a moment longer. “No, you do not have one, or no, you will not give it to me?”
“As I already said, call me whatever you like.”
“Little one, it is then. It suits you. Or perhaps… my White Little Witch.”
“I’m not your anything. Least of all, a witch.”
“Aren’t you?” His head tilts slightly as he studies me. “You do not age. You wear archaic markings on your skin. And your eyes…” His gaze narrows, sharpening. “The light in them tells a different story. That is divine light shining back at me, and believe me, I should know.”
I cannot dispute any of it.
The word witch takes root in my mind and begins to unravel threads of memory. My thoughts sift rapidly through everything I have studied, as though pages are being flipped in some invisible ledger.
Prayer or ritual. Potion-making. Active engagement with unseen forces. Belief shaped into craft—spells, symbols, healing salves, poisons, plants. Weather. Sun and moon cycles. Astrological signs. Charms. Hexes. Communing with spirits beyond the veil.
Some of it aligns. Some do not.
Bloody moon. Now he has me questioning my own identity.
“Are you messing with my head as you have done with them?” I ask tightly, jerking my chin toward the citizens moving about us.
“I have yet to attempt to manipulate your thoughts or emotions.” A faint smile curves his mouth. “At least not today.”
“But you have tried before?”
He shrugs. Shrugs. “Yes. From a distance. As I have with them.”
My eyes narrow on him. “And can you?”
“I could not,” he admits evenly. “But that does not mean it is impossible.”
We hold each other’s gaze for a long moment, tension coiling between us.
“Shall we test it?” he murmurs.
The icy glare I level at him deepens, but my resistance seems only to amuse him. “I would rather you didn’t.”
“But then we would know, wouldn’t we?”
I do not step back. Instead, I study him. His height. His build. The breadth of his shoulders. The placement of muscle along his arms and torso. I search for weaknesses in this mortal guise—something exploitable.
Seconds later, his cultured, velvety voice slips into my mind.
Come closer. Walk to me.
His lips do not move. The command coils through my thoughts, pressing gently, insistent. Yet my body does not respond. It does not compel me. It does not entice me to follow his commands.
It’s my turn to smirk.
“No.”
Instead of frowning as if his little test failed miserably, an amused sound leaves him. “So you can hear me, but your free will is still your own.”
“And thank the blessed heavens for that.”
He cocks his head to one side. “What a strange little creature you are.”
“I could say the same, but creature is not the word I would use.”
“No? Do tell.”
“Abomination. False prophet. Blight on humanity. Soul—”
His smile is wicked. “Serpent. Yes, I know. I’ve become quite fond of that one.”
He bends down, and, using one of the daggers he pulls from his vest, he slices at the bindings around my ankles and knees. When he stands upright, his large hand grabs my elbow.
“Come. That is about as much of this conversation as I care to have out in the open. The rest we will continue in the privacy my home affords. And it must be said that if you attempt to run, I will catch you. This time, the restraints you wear will be chains. Do not take this freedom for granted.”
When I remain silent, he narrows his eyes slightly. “Disobey me in this, and there will be dire consequences.”
“Duly noted.”
He studies me for a moment, measuring the truth of my response. Then he turns, grips my elbow, and pulls me forward, forcing me to walk at his side.
As we travel, men approach and fawn over him, asking after his horse. I roll my eyes skyward. He notices. His gaze flicks toward me, and a spark of amusement lights in his eyes.
“What?”
“It’s annoying.”
“What is, exactly?”
“The way they fawn over you like you're some kind of God, when in reality, you’re pulling the wool over their eyes.”
He doesn’t defend himself or them. Just acknowledges this with a few nods and says, “There’s a reason for it. One you’ll learn in due time.”
“If you say so.”