Chapter 5

Sin hasn't spoken since the others left to hunt supper. I sit with my back against a tree and watch as he creates a tinder nest and coaxes a fire to life—the smell of burning wood enough to emit a low rumble from my stomach, though I doubt I will be fed.

"As entertaining as it is to watch you pretend to be normal, why didn't you just start a fire with magic?" I finally ask.

He pulls the dagger tucked against his hip and sits next to the fire, propping his elbow on his raised knee and stretching out his other leg. Sin ignores my question and begins shaving off strips of wood from the bundle of twigs he collected earlier. His eyes don't leave his work, his hands moving quickly and efficiently to create the extra kindling. I steel my spine, my eyes tracking his dagger every time he expertly slides his blade across the dry wood. The scraping of metal on lumber pricks my ear—a warning he is practiced enough to land his blade dead center in my throat with a casual toss.

I shuffle against the tree and bite my lip as the chains rattle with my movement, the iron burning the delicate skin of my wrists. Iron stifles a mage's ability to manipulate their surroundings—a purifying element—but it does nothing to stop me from flexing my collective and tasting the energy around me. Bracing for the mental impact I felt the last time I explored his collective, I silently stroke his energy with my own, an ability only my kind possesses.

Curiosity. Ripe and blatant, likely him internally questioning who I really am and what I'm after. I press in further, spreading apart the layers of his mind with my own, scanning them quickly and undetectably. I dig deeper—and there—hidden somewhere in the center is… fear. My hold almost slips off its icy surface, but I dig in with mental talons and chip away at it for a closer look.

Heat consumes me. Not from the fire now climbing steadily before me, but from inside him. A surge of molten heat floods my core and coils through me—anger. Anger and… shame.

I sheathe my claws and let my collective spring back to its home behind my eye. He glances behind us, hearing something I don't, and a few seconds later, the guards return carrying a few small game animals they rush to get roasting over the fire. They converse amongst themselves, but Sin remains quiet, busying himself with adjusting the spits above the fire before he crosses the camp and slumps to the ground next to me, pressing his back against the other side of my tree. I try not to straighten too much as his closeness teases the hair on my skin.

Keeping my posture as casual as I can muster, I say, "I suppose I am to starve since you intend on killing me anyway."

He shoots me a sideways glance. "If I had decided on killing you, you'd already be dead."

"Surely you can understand my hesitation in informing you of my abilities, Your Grace."

"We have no fight with witches."

I laugh once without humor and drop my eyes to where my wrists disappear behind my back.

"That isn't because you're a witch. That's because you're a witch working with the rebellion," he says, a muscle feathering in his burnt umber cheek.

"I would rather you fillet and hang me from my feet to drip to death before I ever work with Legion. Do not insult my honor, Your Grace."

He raises an eyebrow at me, and something like a smile twitches on his lips.

I turn to angle my body towards him. "Also, you can cut the witch speech. Just because I wasn't born into a home of silken sheets and fine brandy does not mean my skill set is any less than. I study the art as much as any other mage. My bloodline is irrelevant."

He leans closer and drops his gaze to slowly rake over my body as if he could assess my worth through my appearance. "Does that term bother you… witch?" he asks, flicking his tongue across his top lip as if the thought amuses him.

I swallow the urge to spit at him. "This witch saved your life."

The mischievous glint vanishes from his eyes, and he moves closer, flattening his palm against the tree, inches from my head. "I keep asking myself why a Legion witch would have stopped that arrow. Tell me why."

"Reflex. It isn't in my nature to stand by idly while someone is attacked. You wouldn't be familiar with the concept, Your Grace."

His lips curl up into a wicked smile, and his green irises burn with fevered heat. "No. You want to know what I think happened? I think you knew they'd be out there, just waiting for the opportunity to plant an arrow in my back, but when it came down to it, you didn't have the spine to watch."

"Your Grace," one of the guards calls, standing awkwardly between the fire and where we sit against the tree, holding a cooked slab of rabbit. Sin takes the skewered meat and doesn't hesitate tearing off a chunk with his teeth.

I take a steadying breath. "Don't blame me because you allowed yourself to become distracted, not even a day after they assaulted your outpost and—"

"Failed to assault," he interjects.

"Regardless, it was foolish to leave the keep with them lurking about, all to make some show that your gates are well-armed. Had I not stopped it, we wouldn't be having this conversation. But for once, I think I would have preferred if I had been more like you, Singard, so I could have stood by and let that arrow pierce your frigid heart. It goes without saying, I regret my choice." I look pointedly at my chains.

Sin grabs my chin and tilts my head back so I'm forced to meet his hardened stare. "Do not ever use my name again. Something that nice doesn't deserve to be inside a witch's mouth." He holds my jaw for an extended beat, his breath hot and rattled against my face, before loosening his grip.

I jerk my chin out of his hand and wait for him to relax his posture. "Seems I'm not the only one that gets ticked off from being called the wrong thing. Which do you prefer then—Your Grace, or o'chosen one—or is there another title that warms your black heart? Oh! I think I like that." I smile sweetly at him and cross my legs. "You are my Black Art after all—how about if I just call you something a little more fitting… Blackheart."

Sin exhales sharply and moves to sit next to me again. "I suggest you stop talking before I make you stop, witch." He holds the spit still smoldering with the scent of fresh game in front of my mouth. "Eat."

I will my stomach not to rumble. "I am not a pet—I do not eat from dirty hands."

He sighs. "As soon as the sun rises, we're heading back, and you'll slow us down if you're weak with hunger. Eat," he grumbles again.

"I will not be fed like a dog. You want me to eat so badly, unchain me. I'm clearly not escaping so long as I have o'Blackheart for company," I muse, pressing my lips into a firm line and blinking sweetly at him.

Wrath shadows his face. "You don't like chains? Fine. Then let's have it your way," Sin growls.

Suddenly he is on me, straddling me with his knees on either side of my hips and reaching behind me to grab my forearms.

"Let go of me!" I twist under him, and he tightens his hold on me. I yank against my chains knowing it is useless—iron is strong and unforgiving—but I pull against them with all my might anyway.

He mutters something to himself, but I don't decipher his words over the obscenities I begin shouting at him.

And then I feel it.

His magic enters through my arms and snakes up to my chest, its slimy coolness slithering behind my sternum, entwining itself through each of my ribs. His weight bears into me as he leans closer, his nails digging into my arms, and I flail beneath him, ignoring the searing pain in my shoulder as I try to knock him back. I writhe and twist as his magic flows deeper, but go deadly still as it creeps up my throat, taking its time exploring me, marking me. And then with the same rapidity it entered me, it rushes from my mouth and back into him.

But not all of it. I still feel him in the pit of my stomach—a stain left behind from where his magic twisted and settled inside of me.

"What have you done?" I whisper, unable to muster an ounce of ferocity in my voice.

He drops my arms and hunkers in front of me, devouring the shock and realization from my face with a covetous grin, knowing I don't ask the question in earnest.

A tethering spell.

Wherever I go, no matter the distance, the stain will link us, allowing him to track me—a magical brand. I want to be furious, to shout in his face how much I loathe him and his power and his stupid kingdom, but the words stay frozen and unspoken in my chest.

Running is no longer an option.

Sin's eyes strip me bare as he reaches around me and breaks my binding—tossing the iron chains away from us. His unspoken statement couldn't be louder if he screamed it in my ear—he doesn't need iron chains to control me.

He bound me to him against my will, snatched away my final thread of independence as if it were nothing more than an afterthought. Warmth rushes to my hands as my magic pulses freely through me once more. Sin kneels in front of me, and I bare my teeth at him—a warning.

"You don't own me," I whisper, my voice a hushed fury.

He reaches out and cups my jaw in his hand, leveling his eyes with mine when he says in a voice as cold as winter's wind, "You couldn't behave on your own, now we'll see how you behave for me, little witch." He reaches for the spitted rabbit once more and holds it to my mouth, his long hair almost grazing my chest. "Now eat."

I hold his stare as I tear into it, imagining the red juice splattering my cheeks was his.