Shewasn’tasking because she wanted to know if Nimue was the ‘witch lover’ Themas had spoken of. She just needed to know if a witch had betrayed her existence to the Inquisition.
Her resolve faltered before he could reply. She already knew the answer anyway.
Words spilled out of her, scrambling to redirect her question away. “Sir Ulrech speaks of war, and you mentioned a witch purge. Is she who you are protect—”
Estevan silenced her with a thumb gently stroking her lips. “Sir Ulrech speaks too much. You speak too much. And I …” He drew closer. His lips brushed hers. “It’s notspeakingI want …”
Semras turned aside with a fiery blush. “Alright, enough with you, Inquisitor Drunk.” Her mind fluttered about, trying to regain composure. “To bed, now.”
He was harmless in that state, and bossing him around felt like a nice reward for putting up with him and his wandering hands.
He laughed as she slipped out of his arms. “Bold witch,” he purred.
Semras’ face grew hotter. “Not like that!”
Swatting his hands away, she guided him down onto the bedroll. For a member of the dreadful Inquisition, EstevanVelten was oddly cuddly when all his inhibitions went down. It was almost endearing.
Almost—Nimue would think otherwise if she could see him. His drunk-addled mind had forgotten his paramour, but that was no excuse. Should she ever meet her, Semras would warn her of his wandering hands. Her witch sister deserved better.
“Listen,” Semras said, looking away. “For the sake of collaboration, let’s put the … the ‘glade incident’ behind us.Allof it. We’ll not speak nor think of it anymore, and we’ll remain professional toward each other. Agreed?”
He didn’t answer.
She glanced at him, then groaned. Arms resting around his head, Estevan lay sprawling on the bedroll with his eyes closed. His chest rose up and down with even breaths. Sleep had claimed him silently.
Semras sighed, irritated. She’d have to clarify this awkward situation with him later—especially the ‘professional’ part. Now that she knew of his witch lover, she didn’t want to keep nurturing … whatever had started between them.Ifsomething had started.Ifit wasn’t another one of his deceptions.
Too many ‘ifs’ stood between them anyway.
With a sigh, Semras considered his clothes, torn between ensuring his comfort and her reluctance to undress him so intimately.
Having cast aside his cloak and gloves before, he only wore a high-collared shirt tucked into dark trousers now. Divested of any inquisitorial finery, Estevan looked … oddly human.
Her eyes roamed with curiosity over his sprawled body, entranced by the way the shirt hugged his arms and torso tightly. Pearls of dark crimson stained the white linen.
Blood.
A jolt of anxiety shot through her. Semras unbuttoned his shirt with numb fingers, then looked beneath. She gasped.
There, on his pectoral, claws had shredded his tanned skin from shoulder to sternum. Fresh blood seeped out of the hastily sutured wound. Through the thin, sheer fabric of too few bandages, the witch could see the uneven threads holding it closed together. The gash would heal into an uneven, misshapen scar.
Other injuries adorned his forearms, but none as deep as the one on his chest. Armguards beneath his sleeves must have deflected most of the damage, and only the sharpest fangs had marked his flesh with lacerations and punctured holes.
She had known the wolves had seriously injured him, but facing the evidence made the danger they had faced feel suddenly too real.
Guilt guided her hands over Estevan’s wounds. Closing her eyes, Semras bit her lip. The inquisitor had paid a hefty price to shield her from the wolves. That he had nearly taken her life right after did nothing to lessen the debt she owed—the Old Crone demanded balance, and the New Maiden wished for the debt to be paid.
Peering into the Arras, the witch stared at the shredded threads of his skin. Even through the lenses of the Unseen’s beauty, they looked painful and inflamed, like pulsing, twisting rifts marring his warp shape. Blood vessels were leaking red filaments where he had reopened them by moving, and Semras could see the hints of infinitely smaller threads working to block their flow once more. Estevan’s body had begun repairing itself, but the task would be long and arduous.
Semras was no fleshwitch, but she knew enough to weave him back into something more solid. The healers’ Path demanded precision and patience and could only accelerate what nature would have done on its own, but with enough skills, their weaves could halt infections and break down scar tissue back into supple flesh.
Praying to the New Maiden she wouldn’t worsen his wounds, Semras attempted to do just that.
Slowly, painstakingly so, she wove threads of blood vessels and skin back together. Dirt and animal saliva hid deeper beneath, and she gently unravelled their threads. In the quietest hours of the night, the witch worked while Estevan slept. His skin tightened, and the inflammation retreated. Pale pink tissue formed beneath the stitches, bridging together the split skin.
It was laborious, backbreaking work, but she still did it.
Semras returned her sight to the Seen World, then looked upon her weaves with satisfaction. She had managed to speed up some of the healing process. His wounds would still leave scars a better fleshwitch could have gotten rid of, but at least they would turn into thick lines rather than gnarly, misshapen growths now.
