Chapter 6

"Get up, it's our turn." Sin nudges me with his boot.

The others had taken turns going off in pairs to wash in a nearby river, and the robed woman and her partner just returned, signaling we are next. I stand, straighten my dress, and follow Sin into the woods as he heads towards the running water that will serve as our bathing quarters. He never glances over his shoulder to make sure I'm still following. He doesn't need to.

He would know if I ran—courtesy of his magical brand.

I could kill him. End his life without so much as a whisper and flee before enough time passed for the others to grow wary and come looking for us. I shake away the thought. There is no hiding from her—the dark hunger stirring inside me, always watching, always listening. It wouldn't matter how silent I was—she would hear. And she would come.

Neither of us speaks as we hike through the dense woods, the moon our only lantern through the maze of overgrown brush. I take the opportunity to study Sin while he's focused on pushing the low-hanging branches aside for us. He's tall—easily a head above me—and his shoulders are wide-set and bulky inside his leather tunic. His hair is as black as the night, swaying gently past his shoulder blades as he trudges forward. I steal a glance at his long legs, hidden behind loose-fitting trousers, but remembering how tightly he pinned me between them earlier, I needn't guess how muscular they are.

The trees part, and we approach the river bank populated with cattails and tall grasses. Morrinne often gathered cattails and hung them around the inside of our cabin. Once dried, she would use them to make salves great for treating insect bites and sell them at the market. It wasn't much, but a way to earn a little extra coin for the pack. I frown at their brown spikes as the thought of never feeling another of her motherly hugs punches me in the gut.

Sin reaches for the buttons on his tunic.

I clear my throat. "Are you going to undress in front of me?"

He makes a spinning motion with two of his fingers, signaling for me to turn around. "You don't have to watch. Unless you want to."

I sneer at his lazy grin and turn my back to him, sitting in the blanket of tall grass. Water splashes softly behind me as he wades in and begins to wash himself. I pull one of the cigar-shaped flowers to my nose and inhale its marshy aroma, the earthy smell a reminder of home. A home I may never see again thanks to Sin, his kingdom, and the godsforsaken Legion that spiraled me into this mess.

"What are you going to do with me when we return?" I ask.

"Despite my attempt to be fair with you, witch, you lied to me and assaulted me."

"You would have arrested me on the spot—you cannot fault me for defending myself."

"I have killed men for less."

"Then why am I still breathing, Blackheart?" I should probably stop antagonizing him, but his superiority complex coats my tongue with bile.

"You're of better use to me alive—for now. I can smell them on you—filthy, rebellion trash. You're harboring their secrets. You can either share them willingly, or I can rip them from your tongue myself. It's your choice, witch."

"I. Told. You—I'm not working with them," I say through gritted teeth.

"Then who?"

I whirl around to bark my response, but the sight of the Black Art, water dripping from the ends of his coal black hair and trailing down the hard planes of his chest, leaves the words swollen in my throat. Despite the vulnerability that comes with being exposed, he is more intimidating without his clothes. Sin may possess superior magic, but he isn't underestimating the power of a physical fight either. His bare chest is broad and defined, his stomach sculpted by years of swordsmanship all the way down to where the water ripples above his groin.

Being Dusaro's son, he would have fought in the war with Baelliarah, slitting men's throats in battle before most boys could properly slit a deer's for supper. During Ephraim's reign, transcendents fled to our closest neighbor in an attempt to escape the prejudices thrust upon them. Baelliarah welcomed them with grace, but when Ephraim learned what they were doing, Aegidale invaded and fought for the return of the shifters, unwilling to risk that Baelliarah was using them to pad their own armies in preparation to attack our island. One glance at Sin's arms confirms he could easily overpower me in physical combat should he decide to get friendly with the iron again.

I raise my eyes to meet his, his irises the same shade as the lush carpet of algae growing on the river rocks and appearing almost reflective in the moonlight. "I. Work. For. No. One."

His stare hardens. "My father will never believe that."

"Then I guess it's a good thing your father isn't the Black Art," I snap.

"Remind me of your father's name again," he challenges, calling me on my lie from earlier. I don't answer but hold his stare as he searches both my eyes. "I thought so."

"I saved your life."

"And that's the only reason I haven't killed you yet. Now unless you want to be plagued with filthy thoughts about me, witch, I suggest you turn around so I can dress. It's your turn to bathe—you stink."

My eyes hurt from how far back I roll them, but I turn and listen as the rushing water makes way around him as he wades to land and dresses. I don't comment on the detail he let slip—my possible knowledge of Legion secrets is not the only reason he let me live. Stopping that arrow from penetrating his cold, brutal heart must have plucked a string on it after all.

He tells me when he's clothed, and I gather the skirts of my dress in my hands. Peering over my shoulder to make sure he is looking away, I slip it over my head and toss it on the bank before dipping a toe in the water. Gooseflesh erupts on my arms and legs like an infectious blight as I step in deeper, the gelid water wringing the warmth from my veins. Being a head shorter than Sin, the water clothes me to the tops of my breasts. I shake my braid loose and lean back so it unravels into the rushing water, letting the river cleanse it of dirt and debris.

I use the silence to rack my thoughts for a plan. Now that I am tethered to him, if I make the decision to run, it is a lifetime sentence. How long will Cosmina and the others wait for me to return before they come looking, risking themselves for the sake of my freedom? If I manage to slip away from Sin, I could send word to my family to keep them from looking for me—maybe leave a note at the inn for Cosmina—but spending the remainder of my life fleeing from dark corners to abandoned alleys doesn't seem like a life worth living. I need more time.

With a final wring of my hair, I deem I'm as clean as I'm going to get and glance back to Sin before turning around, finding his near reflective eyes burning a hole into my back.

I slap the water like one might smack a horse's behind, sending a wave of bitingly cold spray towards him. "Don't watch!"

He sidesteps the assaulting water with ease and crosses his arms against his chest. "The last time I lost sight of you, you made me chase you half the day. I'm not in the hunting mood tonight, witch."

"I also wasn't tethered to you with your dirty spell," I hiss. "And unless you want to be tested with less than pious thoughts about me, I suggest you turn around."

Not so much as a flicker of amusement crosses his face before he spins on his heels and stares out into the darkened woods. Careful of the loose river rocks beneath my bruised and swollen feet, I trudge towards the bank and step onto dry land. I pluck my dress from the ground and bunch the fabric together to step into the skirts and—what is that?

Inked into the skin along my left hip bone is a small black heart. I press my fingers against the design—its lines too elegant and delicate to symbolize something so cruel, but there it sits, unassuming on my body as if it has been there forever—Blackheart's black heart.

"YOU brANDED ME!" I knew the tethering spell bound us together by magic, but to physically mark me—my fingers curl at my sides, and not caring that I'm naked, I shove my hands against his back.

Faster than I can track the movement, he spins and grabs my hands, holding them too tightly in both of his. His lips curl into a grin as if a facetious thought crosses his mind, unfazed by my attempted assault.

"I told you—you're mine. That," he looks at the dainty heart inked into my skin, "is to make sure you don't forget." His eyes flash back to mine, not trailing to look at any other part of me besides my hip, and I can't hold it back—I spit at the Black Art's feet.

"Go to Hell, Your Grace." I yank my hands free from his, and he doesn't fight me.

"I thought you'd enjoy the symbolism. You seemed to think the nickname was so clever, I thought you may wish to enjoy it a little more… permanently."

I snatch my dress from the ground, and Sin turns around again without my order. Forcing the dress to wiggle down my wet body, I shove my arms into the sleeves and swear as my shoulder strains to lift above my head. I place my hand against the bandage, now sodden from the bath and blood, and reach for my collective to heal the wound.

His hand slams down on the back of mine. "Leave it," he growls, baring his teeth. "You don't use magic unless I give you explicit permission to do so. Otherwise, you can have your chains back to match your new ink."

I let my hand fall to my side, and his eyes flare with perverse amusement.

If you only knew what kind of magic I am capable of, Blackheart.

I may be trapped with the Black Art through his invisible tether, but a wicked smile tugs at my lips as I imagine the shock enveloping his face when I show him what I really am—who I really am. He raises an eyebrow at my sudden change of expression, to which I simply shrug and push past him in the direction of camp.

His quiet footsteps fall in line behind me, and I can almost hear the devious grin stretch across his face. I want to whirl around and punch him square in his stupid muscular chest, but I don't, knowing my shoulder couldn't tolerate it, and neither would the Black Art. He let my earlier assault pass without punishment, but I don't doubt trying that again would flare his temper beyond whatever semblance of control he has left.

The walk back to camp feels longer than when we left it. Maybe it's the burning in my spine where I feel Sin's stare burrowing into my flesh, or maybe it's the desire to sneak a peek at the black heart weighing on my hip like the heaviest of swords. Either way, my calves beg for mercy as we crunch through the remnants of winter's dead leaves, my feet tired and heavy in my too-thin leather sandals.

I am almost relieved when we spill through the last of the trees and into the small clearing that is our camp. Lying against the tree from earlier, I find the most comfortable position I can manage in the grass with my back to the lot of their miserable faces. The fire crackles and pops behind me, the dry branches gasping for their final breaths, when I hear one of them address Sin, a maniacal chuckle in his voice.

"You willing to share her, Your Grace? We wouldn't mind a turn if you're done with her."

My blood turns to ice in my veins as I wait for his response, magic flooding to my forearms. I will melt the skin from their flesh before I let one of them even get close.

Try me.

A broken gasp like he was grabbed by the collar erupts from the guard who asked the lewd question.

His tone promising something lethal, Sin warns in a voice like sharpened steel, "The witch is mine."

The guard stammers an apology, and I let loose a shaky breath. While I would be shortsighted to trust any of these men, I do trust they won't cross Sin. Nonetheless, I turn so I am facing them before I pretend to sleep.