I hated that he was right. Hated that kissing him had dragged me back from the edge of a complete breakdown, that his hands on me had been more effective than any calming spell, which I hadn’t even thought to try in my panic.
“It was a distraction.”
“A very effective distraction.” His thumb traced circles on my wrist, feeling my pulse. “Your heart’s still racing, though.”
“That’s your fault.”
“I know.” He released me, stepping back with obvious reluctance. “But you’re thinking clearly now. That’s what matters.”
I opened my mouth to respond, to say what, I had no idea, when something jerked within me.
Silas. Finally.
The connection blazed clear and strong, no longer muffled by panic and stone. I felt his rage, his determination, his absolute focus on reaching me. Then I heard it. His roar from the other side of the barrier, primal and fierce. The scrape of stone on stone as something massive began moving the rubble.
“They’re alive. They’re coming.” Relief flooded through me so intensely it nearly brought me to my knees.
Wickett moved to the barrier, listening. “Multiple sources. They’re digging from their side.”
I reached for him, knowing this moment alone was about to end. And there was something I needed to say before it did.
“I know your secret.”
He went very still. “You what?”
“I know what you are, Wickett.”
His expression changed completely. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t you?” I took a step closer. “The runes you keep hidden under your clothes and hair. The way you use the truth stone when no other hunter can. Your dedication to helping witches escape when any other hunter wouldn’t.” I paused, locking onto his eyes. “That spell you whispered before you pulled your blades when the Night Eater showed up.”
His jaw tightened. Every line of his body went taut.
“You’re a witch,” I said simply. “Or partly one.”
Silence stretched between us.
“Half,” he said finally, eyeing the wall as if he’d be heard. “I’m half witch. My mother’s blood.”
The admission should have felt like victory. Instead, it felt like watching him bleed. My throat went tight. He’d just confessed the one thing that could get him executed alongside every witch he’d ever tried to save. Now he was standing there in the dim light, watching me with those dark eyes, waiting to see what I’d do with information that could destroy him.
I wasn’t sure what would happen now that I knew. The Ripper didn’t leave witnesses to his secrets. Didn’t let people walk away with knowledge that could unravel everything he’d built. But was he that? Truly? I should have been more afraid.
He stepped closer, lowering his voice more, living in his confession. “The first witch I helped escape was my half-sister. My mother’s oldest child, from before my father. She would have been executed. Hanged or beaten to death for just... living. So I got her out.”
“And your mother?”
His voice went flat, emotionless. “Dead. My father killed her years ago. But he doesn’t think I know. Still uses her as leverage, mentions her like she’s alive somewhere, locked away with the rest of his collection.”
The weight of it hit me like a physical blow. Years of pretending. Years of hiding what he was while watching his own people burn.
“Is that why your father’s missing? Did you?—”
“No. I had nothing to do with whatever he’s planning now.”
“But you wanted to.”
He stroked a hand down a harrowed face. “Every day of my life. But hunters can’t kill their leader. He’s protected by magic. Even if I wanted him dead—and I do—I couldn’t be the one to do it. Hunter’s law is absolute.” He tucked a finger under my chin, stepping closer as he guided my face up to his. “I can trust you with this secret, can’t I, little witch?”
