Before he could retreat, Semras grabbed his clothes and kept him kneeling before her. Resentment drowned her voice into a low, chilling tone. “You do a lot of that, Estevan. Crossing the line, then expecting to be forgiven for it. You’re cruel, then kind, then cruel again. Does it amuse you?” Her fingers ripped the last buttons out. “What gives you the right? Why would you even want to hurt me—hurt Nimue—like that? If you want forgiveness, then confess why I should grant it while you’re still kneeling before me.”
Frozen in place, the inquisitor gaped at her.
After roughly parting the folds of his shirt, Semras inspected his wounds. They were well on the mend, but her weaving had made some parts heal faster than others, and the scarred, stiff skin now pulled at the edge of fresher wounds. This was what still hurt him.
She winced. That was the result of her lack of experience on the Flesh Path, but she could fix it. The scar tissues could be softened into more pliable skin, she judged.
Still on his knees, Estevan remained silent, and Semras scoffed. His lack of answers spoke plenty of his true feelings about repentance.
Lifting her hands to his chest, she kept her eyes fixed on his chest, unwilling to meet his gaze. “Forget it,” she said. “I hate you that way.” She wasn’t sure if she meant his temper or his wounded state.
Before she could start, Estevan caught her wrists. “Have you any idea …” he drawled, “how dangerous you are to me? I am just a man, Semras. Can’t you tell how tempted I am …”
At the sound of her name, her eyes snapped up to him.
Shock had made way for an indescribable expression on his face. Pupils dilated into two black voids rimmed with ice, his half-lidded eyes trailed down to her mouth. He released her wrist, then slowly moved his hand toward her cheek—as if testing her, as if she would startle and flee if he approached too fast.
She just might.
“… to let you damn me?” Estevan leaned closer. The fast pulse of his heartbeat danced through his neck.
It beat as fast as her own.
His proximity bathed her in his maddening musk and wood essence cologne. It rooted her in place, tormenting her. Her mind was screaming that this was wrong, that she shouldn’t let him get closer, but she couldn’t remember why. She couldn’t think anymore, mind heady with electrical anticipation.
Why was this supposed to be wrong?
Semras didn’t push him away—didn’t turn her face away to break that fragile thing slowly emerging between them.
Cradling her cheek, Estevan pressed his thumb over her lips. His body trapped her in the chair, but she felt acutely aware that a single push of her palm or a single second of broken eye contact would remove him from her at once, like it happened in the glade.
“‘Confess,’ you say …” His thumb, still caressing her lips, kept him maddeningly apart from her. “… I will. Give me absolution, for I confess—”
The door opened.
Tray in hand, a servant entered the room. Averting her eyes with professionalism, she placed it on a corner of the desk, then left wordlessly.
Eyes wide with alarm, Semras stared at the closing door, then pushed Estevan away from her.
He yielded to her will with closed eyes and a clenched jaw. Stumbling back onto his feet, the inquisitor lifted his head to the coffered ceiling and breathed deeply. When he opened his eyes again, the fire they’d held within only seconds before had dimmed into embers.
Estevan turned to the tray and served them wine in two goblets. He seemed calm, too calm, but the taut cords of his arms betrayed his inner struggle.
Taking the offered wine gingerly, Semras twirled the dark liquid, then sniffed it. Its strong bouquet made her wince, but she still took a sip. She needed alcohol after … that.
Old Crone curse her; she had forgotten about Nimue for a delirious second there. Guilt gnawed at her, and she felt quite inclined to drown it in alcohol beforeshedrowned in it first.
Duly observing the rules ofxenia, Estevan bit into a slice of bread topped with honey-drizzled cheese, then offered one to her. He watched her eat it, licking the honey off his fingers.
His eyes were still burning with restraint. Estevan was smirking, but no smugness reached them. He looked oddlywalled off, detached, as if he hadn’t been about to kiss her—and she, about to let him.
“We drank, now we talk,” he said, echoing the words she’d told him on the day they met. “Tell me, if you wanted to kill a man, what would you feed him?”
Chapter 18
Semrasarchedaneyebrow.“If I wanted to kill a man, I wouldn’t reveal my method to an inquisitor,Inquisitor.”
“Indulge me,” he said, his voice cajoling her. “Hypothetically.”
