I shook my head. “Not unless I say so.”
That made him smile again, but this time it was wolf’s teeth.
A voice from outside, Sir Aldric, cut through the morning mist like a blade. “Lady Scarlette of Ashburn. Step out. Or we’ll torch it. No more games.”
I felt my knees try to buckle, but I wouldn’t let them. I pressed my hand to Moab’s arm, not to steady myself, but to steady him. “Let me go first,” I whispered. “If they see you, they’ll attack.”
He hesitated and then nodded.
I limped to the door. Moab followed, so close I could feel the heat of him, ready to cover me if the first arrow flew.
The world outside was blinding. Fire everywhere, torches, lanterns, the low winter sun catching on steel. The men had formed a crescent around the hut, weapons raised. Behind them, the villagers, a crowd of faces I’d known my whole life, but now they watched with the hungry blankness of a pack at the end of winter.
Aldric was the first to speak. “You’ve made it hard, Scarlette. But it ends today.” He raised a hand, and the men moved forward, boots crunching frost.
Brother Tomas stepped ahead, eyes fixed not on me, but on Moab, as if he could see the beast even before it showed. “Bring out the demon, Lady. There is nothing left for you but mercy, and you must beg for it.”
I took another step, then froze as pain shot up my leg. Moab caught me, arm around my waist, holding me upright.
The movement drew a gasp from the crowd. One of the men spat. Another, braver than the rest, raised his spear. “See how it holds her?” he yelled. “Just like the Widow Weatherby!”
Aldric’s voice went sharp. “Bind them both. The man first.”
The armed men surged forward, and in that instant, Moab tensed, every muscle shivering with the urge to rip and tear. I felt it, felt the pulse of heat, the strange, electric chill, the moment when his eyes flashed gold, and his breath turned to steam.
I squeezed his arm. “No,” I said. “Not yet.”
He gritted his teeth, but let them drag him away. Two of the braver men wrestled his arms behind his back and lashed them with rope, real rope, thick and new, not the rotted stuff they usedon livestock. Even tied, Moab kept his head up, staring at Aldric with an expression I’d only ever seen in dying animals. Not fear, but calculation.
They came for me next. The hands were rough, fingers digging into my bruised flesh. Someone yanked my arms up too fast, and I gasped, the pain making sparks in my eyes. I did not let them see me cry out.
Brother Tomas circled, hands clasped like he was praying. “Do you repent?” he whispered. The smell of his breath was sweet, like rotting fruit. “Do you give yourself over to God’s mercy?”
I looked at him long enough that he blinked. “Do you?”
His lips thinned, but he said nothing. He gestured, and the men pushed me forward. Moab was already kneeling in the mud, face pressed to the ground, a spear at his neck.
Aldric stepped close, his shadow falling over us both. “You chose the wolf,” he said, soft, so only I could hear. “You will die with him. And your soul will burn for it.”
He expected a response, but I just watched his face. There was sweat on his brow, though the air was cold as death.
I let them bind my wrists and push me to my knees beside Moab. He shifted, just enough that our shoulders touched. I leaned into him, letting the heat bleed off. For a second, we were alone, the world shrunk to the space between us.
“Sorry,” he said, low and hoarse.
“For what?” I whispered.
“For not running when I had the chance.”
I bit back a laugh. “Then we’re both fools.”
The ropes cut into my skin. Moab’s face was bruised and bleeding, but his eyes were clear. Aldric stood above us, sword drawn, the crowd pressed close, torches reflected in the wet of the ground.
Brother Tomas raised his hands, and the villagers fell silent.
“Behold!” he cried. “The witch and her familiar! See the mark of the beast!” He pointed at Moab’s arm, the tattoo blue as the sky.
A hush, then someone screamed, and a rock hit Moab’s shoulder. He barely flinched.
