His fingers dug into the side of her throat. “Oh, I will. Look at my gloves. I killed before, and the tribunals sanctified me for it,” he purred. “I can and will do it again.” A mad, arrogant triumphlit up his gaze. The inquisitor had her exactly where he wanted her—but not for long if she could help it.
Semras crashed her forehead against his. Grunting in pain, he stumbled back.
Her head throbbed. Teeth gritted, Semras slithered past him and ran as fast as she could toward the door. Beyond it lay freedom, safety. She’d reach it, and then she’d—
Arms seized her from behind. They lifted her from the floor, and she thrashed her legs in the air, trying to squirm out of their grip. “Hel—!”
A hand muffled her. She bit it, but neither pain nor blood stopped the murderer.
He lowered her down only to crush her against the floor with his frame, pressing her belly against it. She was trapped—trapped between him and the polished wooden planks beneath her.
Semras struggled, and the pressure on her increased. Dry sobs of despair ripped through her throat as he spread her wrists apart, crushing them against the floor. She was defenceless now.
She had always been.
“Hush,” the inquisitor murmured in her ear. “There is no need to cry. My men heard the scream of that man too, and they did nothing. What makes you think they will come to save you?”
One by one, burning tears rolled down Semras’ cheeks. This was how she’d die, killed by the madman who somehow convinced her to trust him.
She was never returning home.
Against her will, a loud, pitiful whimper escaped her throat. It was a cry of mourning—for herself, for her home, for her heart. How foolish she’d been.
How could she have ever trusted an inquisitor?
The crushing weight on her vanished, and Semras was left alone on the floor. Her body instinctively crawled toward thedoor, still holding onto the vain hope of surviving. But there was no hope. Even that pathetic escape attempt would soon be thwarted, and she’d die hearinghislaughter in her ears.
The floor smelled of old, rotten blood. It smelled of death. Her fingers raked over the grain of the wood, scratching at her own coffin.
When the murderer reappeared in front of her, cutting off her way, she stopped moving. Her body slumped against the floor, surrendering at last.
“Where are those defiant eyes that stared me down in the glade?” he asked, crouching before her. “Where is that wild spirit that made you hold your ground against me?”
A hand raised her chin, and Semras met his gaze.
Through her blurred vision, she imagined Estevan standing there instead of the murderer. His gaze had turned soft, subdued. Was that shame lurking within, or did she long so much for some humanity that she was hallucinating it?
“Semras?”
The sound of her name on his lips broke her. The fragile pride holding onto her dignity burst, and her tears came pouring out. Semras sobbed; her body quivered violently from the strength of her weeping. She felt cold, so, so cold.
And terrified. Helpless. Alone.
So damn alone.
“Be my tool, Semras,” the inquisitor murmured. “I can be good to you, but only if you serve your purpose.”
Her eyelids fluttered open, and Semras met his gaze. More violent shivers seized her body.
He had always been watching her ever since they met. In her mind, she had unconsciously started cataloging all of his stares, from the disdainful to the mocking. This one was new. It felt tender, vulnerable even, and patient. He looked at her as if he were beholding something precious and fragile.
But he was beholding her—histool.
The disparity shook her. Semras wrenched herself out of his grip and fell backward, elbows slamming against the floor behind her. She expected strong arms to seize her again, yet this time, the murderer stayed crouching in front of her, apparently content to stare. His eyes shone so brightly, she found herself unable to break free from his gaze.
A heavy silence stretched between them.
“Why did you kill him?” she whispered in a hoarse, small voice.
