Pride flickers; even while I lay unconscious, my magic defended me—deep slices mark their faces, arms, and necks, anywhere skin is bare. Their torn shirts and blood-streaked skin are proof of what I did.
But I cannot feel my power now. I am truly trapped.
The irony is not lost on me.
Cosseted by my brothers and meddling, loving parents, I have led a fortunate life. I thought I was strong enough to control all situations. Yet it seems William was the one pulling the strings all along.
I am the fool who believed otherwise.
Twenty years together, and he sold me out.
There is no point regretting it now; the past cannot be changed. First, I must escape. Later, I can lament my poor choices to my heart’s content.
Anger seethes hotter than ever, but beneath it liessomething colder. Terror. Panic claws at my throat. If I surrender to it, I shall die.
I must disrupt the chant. If I can break the circle, even slightly?—
Even if I blow us all up.
Do something, Hestia!
I grit my teeth, strain against the magical binding… nothing.
The chanting swells; the spell nears completion. The air inside the circle feels tight.
Oh,come on!
The shifter with the angled eyebrows notices I am awake. A nasty cut bisects his cheek, yet he smiles with relish, the blood sliding down his face at odds with his delight. The hairs on the back of my neck rise as he hauls a weeping William forward by the collar.
Do not feel sorry for him.Don’t you dare.He is not crying for me. No. He is crying only for himself.
“Forgive me,” he whispers. “I am so-so terribly sorry. I never intended?—”
Why are you lying, William?I want to scream.You hit me with a hammer after you brought me here to die. I am your wife!
Slowly—oh, so slowly—the shifter presses a knife to William’s throat.
Shock, not just magic, holds me pinned to the floor.
William’s Adam’s apple jerks as he swallows. His eyes widen. “You gave me your word,” he stammers. “You said, if I brought my wife, I would be spared. You have your paper mage—your sacrifice!”
A dark patch spreads acrosshis trousers.
“Don’t get blood on my circle,” growls the moustached mage.
The shifter pulls William’s head back, baring his throat, and instead of slicing, he twists. The crunch and pop of his bones is so loud. I silently scream into the magical gag. My heart thunders as I watch him drop, knowing that there is nothing,nothingI can do.
One ruthless part of me welcomes his death. Yet another part of me, the part that spent years striving to love my husband, shatters.
After everything—his betrayal—they did not let him walk free.
Perhaps the fault is mine; had I stepped into the circle without protest, they might have spared him.
Jealousy also needles me. He gets to leave—to go wherever souls travel—while I must remain, bound.
A tear slips down my cheek, not for him but for myself.
The circle. I recognised it at once.
