His expression froze. Semras knew she was pushing it, but she had already slept in his embrace once. It wasn’t right, not for Nimue nor for herself, but … what was one more time?
What would he think of one more time?
Just once, just until she remembered what warmth was. Then it would never happen again.
He approached her slowly. “Is this what you want?” he asked, voice barely past a whisper. “Trulywant? As an inquisitor, I know I am seldom seen as a … a source of comfort. Surely you would be more at ease with Sir Themas? I will not be offended if you ask me to fetch him.”
Semras pondered his offer, then slowly shook her head. Themas would be more comfortable, but she wouldn’t feel safer. Something about the wild, violent aura of the inquisitor made him … what, exactly? More reassuring? As if getting close to a dangerous man would shelter her from other dangerous men. Perhaps that was why Nimue stayed by his side.
Her, again. Semras didn’t want to think of his lover; she wanted to be selfish. She wanted—
Estevan studied her, assessing her request with far more hesitation than she had expected. Of course—he was thinking of his lover.
The weight of her imposition on him crushed her heart. Guilt made her ask what she didn’t want an answer to. “Nimue …?”
His eyes widened. “She … she will not mind,” he muttered, evading her gaze. “She never does.”
He was lying. His fleeing eyes and hesitant excuse made it painfully obvious.
In her heart, the tiny, ridiculous hope it might have all been a misunderstanding died without a sound.
Semras felt cold. So damn cold, and so damnalone. Stifling a miserable, traitorous sob, she looked away.
She couldn’t do this to a witch sister. Couldn’t selfishly demand to be the one he wanted to embrace. Tears filled her eyes, and she covered her face, ashamed. Shewasn’tthe one he wanted to—
Estevan drew her into his arms. His warmth, soothing and comforting, suffused her heart at once. “Semras …” he murmured, burying his face in her hair. “You can cry. You are safe now, you can let go. I am here. I am not going anywhere. You are safe.” His hand gently caressed her head.
Sudden, silent sobs wracked her entire body. Semras clung to him desperately, fearing she’d go adrift in a storm of panic and fear and self-loathing without him to anchor her to the present. Her broken nails hurt from clutching his shirt, but she didn’t let go.
Couldn’tlet him go. Old Crone curse her; she needed him too much.
Safe in his embrace, Semras cried her heart out. Tears fell freely down her cheeks, each sob wrenching new ones out of her.Her throat hurt, her tears drenched his shirt, and Estevan held her through it all.
Minutes passed before she felt strong enough to compose herself. After a few final sniffles, she released him, cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
Slowly, as if worried he’d make her scamper away, Estevan wiped the last remnant of her tears off her cheeks. His caution made her feel like a small animal being tamed. She wasn’t one, and she was tired of being handled like delicate glass. Staring directly into his eyes, she waited silently. Questioningly.
“Lie down,” Estevan commanded in a gentle voice.
For once, she obeyed him, slipping beneath lukewarm blankets before settling in the middle of the bed. By their disarrayed look, she could tell the inquisitor had been sleeping during the … while she was …
Semras tried to wipe that memory from her mind. The bed smelled faintly of Estevan, and she clung to it desperately, chasing after the lingering feeling of his arms around her.
He shrugged his shirt off, and she looked away before her attention lingered too long on his naked chest—she had stolen enough glances the previous night. Instead, she rolled on her side, away from him.
The mattress dipped behind her. Seconds later, his warmth enveloped her once more as he cradled her. “Say the word,” Estevan whispered in her ear, “and I will have Sir Themas take my place.”
Semras glanced at him over her shoulder. “Your fault. Your respon—” She coughed. “—responsibility.”
He drew her closer into his arms, and she let herself drift into sleep. Tomorrow, she would process what had happened. For tonight, she’d rest and gather her strength back.
At the edge of her slumbering mind, Semras dreamt of Estevan’s voice.
“I was not too late. Blessed be the Radiant Lord, I was not too late.”
Brightsunrayswarmedtheroom up by the time Semras woke up. The first thing she saw was Themas, sitting on a chair and facing the door in a silent vigil, sword planted between his feet.
The second thing she noticed was the empty, cold space behind her where Estevan should have been. Ignoring the pangs of disappointment blooming in her heart, Semras shuffled out of the blankets and sat at the edge of the bed.
