“You bastard!” she growled. A violent shiver shook her body. “You Crone-forsaken bastard! Is this the justice you spoke of? I saved your life, Estevan! Is this your justice?”
Far above them, thunder roared, and the rain intensified. Drops of water fell onto her bare back like icy daggers. They soaked through the fabric of the dress gathered around her hips.
Raindrops—falling from her eyes in torrents—mercifully blurred Velten’s expression.
Her hands shook around his throat, more symbolic of her desire to live than posing any real threat to him. Even if she could will them to squeeze, she was too weak to choke the life out of him. He would overpower her again—any second now—but she wouldn’t let him take her life without spitting his hypocrisy back at his face.
He still lived thanks to her, and she’d make sure he’d never forget it.
“You want my life, fine! Kill me, and I will haunt every breath you take! They’re mine, they’re all mine!” Semras said, voice filled with rage. “Estevan, you bastard, my blood will never wash off your hands!”
Falling around her face, her long strands of white hair brushed over him. With all the defiance and blame she could muster, Semras stared him down. Her breath had grown shallow; her hands trembled uncontrollably.
Beneath her, Inquisitor Estevan Velten stayed silent.
Weary, Semras wavered, then fell to the side. The world turned upside down.
The inquisitor jumped over her and caught the back of her head before it hit the ground. His hand cushioned her fall in an odd, confusing, caring moment. Then it vanished, and he pinned her down once more, his face twisting into a grimace of anguish. Grabbing her wrists, he spread her arms on each side of her head. His grip tightened painfully.
Her skin would bruise if she lived long enough to see the next day.
Velten dropped his forehead onto her shoulder, then exhaled deeply. “Enough! Enough, witch.”
Over them, the rain abated. Thunder rolled away from the area.
“Void take me,” Estevan muttered. His breath shuddered out of him, heating the skin of her bare shoulder. “Do not—do notmove. Do not call me by my name. I am Inquisitor Velten to you. You hear me? I am Inquisitor—damn it! Damn you!” Raising his head, he relaxed the grip around her wrists.
Her heart still beat out of control, but Semras could sense something had changed. It was subtle, but the inquisitor had mellowed.
He might yet hear her out.
Velten stared straight into her eyes. “I will ask you questions. You will answer them. Do not resist me.”
Back to questioning, then. It was a step in the right direction, at least. No blade threatened her neck this time.
And the hands holding her down were trembling. Just like hers.
“… Fine,” she said.
“You know why I am restraining you. Witches are weakest at close quarters, and, as such, at close quarters you will remain. Will you fight it?”
“No. Even if I wanted to, I’ve no strength left in me.”
“You are suffering from the backlash of your spells, aren’t you?”
She thought of the wolf, and the storm slowly moving away up above, and the heavy smoke emanating from the now-extinguished bushes. She thought of her lifeforce, twinned within his core. “I am.”
“You confessed to using Bleak magic. And you—”
“No,” she cut him off, eyes blazing. “I did not. I confessed to using magic; magic treading on the edge of the Path, I’ll admit, but it wasn’t Bleak. Intentionsmatter. I didn’t use the Arras wanting to hurt or maim or kill—so itwasn’tBleak.”
The inquisitor furrowed his brow in a snarl. “You are—!” Disbelief washed over his face. “You are … not lying …”
“I mind-controlled the wolf, but only to pacify it. I … I know it was dangerous, but surely you can see I had no ill intentions.”
“And what about your intentions toward me? You took my lifeforce. I know what that feels like. You cannot deny it.”
“I won’t. You were about to fall, and I … I thought …” She looked aside, unwilling to bare her soul under his gaze. “I couldn’t let you. If you died, and I did nothing to prevent it, I—I had to do something, even if it meant hurting you.”
