Chapter 4

He doesn't know.

He saw me do magic, but nothing a casual mage can't do. He has no reason to assume I am anything more than that, not that I'm sure it matters. Casual mage or not, I assaulted the Black Art.

Punishable by death, and as if he needed another crime to stack on my piling record, I didn't confess I was a mage when asked about myself. It will be seen as a lie by omission, given the nature of why I was being held. And the worst part isn't that I will be executed, likely publicly, but that I will die being accused of working with Cathal. I would rather die a thousand painful deaths than ever be associated with his name again.

It was freezing the night he came into the inn, needing a bed and a warm drink. I stayed well past my shift that evening, caught up talking with him about anything and everything. Cathal was funny… kind… and I was vulnerable. He was the first man to show that kind of interest in me, and I fell for him so quickly. I think that was the worst part of it all—how damn easily I gave my heart to him.

My head whips towards the sound of running water, and I follow the gentle roar, sighing deeply when I find its source. I kneel next to the steam and make a cup with my hands, scooping up a handful, and slurp it from my palms.

Cathal was the only other person to whom I confessed what I was outside of my adoptive family. I knew he was involved with some kind of group, had listened to his ramblings about the corruption of the kingdom, but I didn't understand the extent of it back then. He was a transcendent, someone who could understand the struggle of being ashamed of what you are, or so I had thought.

They came for me that night. He brought friends, other members of his group that would soon be known as Legion, and together, they held me down and chained me in iron. They brought me to their hideout in the woods where they took turns kicking me, beating me, violating me—punishment for what I was, they said. Cathal demanded I use my power to aid their cause and overthrow Ephraim and his crooked reign. If I didn't give myself over willingly, they threatened to kill Cosmina and our other pack members. Trusting Cathal was the biggest mistake I've ever made. All he saw was a ticket to victory, a Legion asset, a trophy.

Back then, I was too afraid to fight back, too worried I would accidentally kill one of them and become the monster depicted in the legends of my kind—legends mothers warned their children about on crisp autumn nights. If I had offered myself a fraction of the trust I threw at Cathal when I told him what I was, they never would have stood a chance.

I kick off my sandals and hike up the skirts of my dress, easing into the stream. I wince as the cold water rushes over the tops of my bloodied feet, crashing against my ankles and carrying the dried dirt from my blistered toes. If I ever make it home, the first thing I'm doing is demanding my bear-of-a-friend, Eldridge, give me a foot rub.

I haven't risked healing my shoulder and draining my energy further, not until I have covered more distance and can rest. If I can find some yarrow, the leaves are great for warding off infection. Or there should be some witch hazel around here somewhere… if I could just find some wormwood, I can make a tea and—

Branches snap behind me.

Goddess above.

I slowly lift one foot out of the water, then the other, and slip them back into their leather sandals. Hoisting my skirts up, I tiptoe back into the brush, careful to not rustle a single leaf or kick a loose rock.

"Up ahead—I think I see something!" a man's voice calls from way too close for comfort.

I dive into a sprint. Hurtling into the trees, I run as fast as I can without colliding into their thick trunks. Faster. Faster. Adrenaline rushes to my calves, compelling them to not quit, to not feel the burn as my muscles tighten, weaken.

Running is surviving. I run.

I don't register the pain as a low-hanging branch thumps against my stomach, sending me falling to the unforgiving ground. My palms catch most of my weight, breaking my impact before my face slams into the dusty, red-tinged soil.

They're on me immediately, their footsteps quickening in tune to the thrumming of the blood pulsing in my veins, willing me to get up, to keep running. I don't have time, not enough time.

Flipping onto my back, I chuck a shard of magic from my palm, throwing a man about to tackle me backwards into the brush. Another guard dives to the side, nearly being thwacked by the body I sent flying. I flip back over and tuck my knees to my chest, ready to break into another sprint when a heavy set of hands slam onto my back. A strangled breath rips from my chest as I hit the ground, a jagged rock scraping my mouth where my jaw connects with the muddied floor. My blood sweetens my lips, and I go deadly still, not daring to breathe. I wait for the attacker's weight to shift again, priming my core to buck him off when he does, but the assailant matches me with a primal stillness of his own.

And then his familiar voice whispers against my neck, sending every hair on my body snapping to attention. "I wouldn't try that again."

Sin slides down so his knees jut into my sides, pinning me between muscular thighs. I jerk under him, prompting his legs to squeeze me harder as he wrestles my wrists from under my stomach and wraps them with the all too recognizable sting of cold iron. He isn't gentle as he pulls the chains snug against my skin and tests them for durability. I swallow the urge to scream as the metal reacts to my magic, singeing my flesh as if trying to burn the chaos out of me.

He grabs my elbow and yanks me to my feet. There are four others with him—three men and a woman, all dressed in soldier uniforms except the woman who wears a long black tunic under a dark, hooded robe. I bare my teeth at them, inciting a chuckle from a couple of the men.

"Easy there, little witch," Sin sneers.

He glances up at the sky that has darkened into a muted purple. I evaded them for more than half the day; a valiant effort, but I wasn't quick enough. "Set up camp. We'll head back at sunrise," he orders the other four.

He must have sent for his guards before coming after me, or maybe he only returned to the castle to fetch the iron, knowing it was now a little witch he was hunting, as he called me. The kingdom prides themselves on having a council of royal mages but looks down on any not born from a noble bloodline. Witch is a derogatory term, synonymous with dirty-blooded. A mage whose power wasn't inherited.

He smacks the dirt from his pants and meets my glare with one of his own. "I suggest you settle in—we have a long night ahead of us."

I barely hear the threat in his words over my pounding heart.

I should have let that arrow fly.