“Different because now we have time to think,” I said finally.
Her smile was as sharp as her magic. “And thinking is dangerous?”
“With you? Probably.”
She moved to the left room. I took the right. The moment the distance exceeded fifteen feet, the magical ribbon went taut. Not painful, but insistent. Like a hand on the arm, constantly pulling.
I began my standard quarters assessment but found myself distracted by the sounds from her room. The way she tested the doorknob methodically. The ruffling of her blanket and pillow as she checked her bed. Even the sound of the bedside table sliding across the floor.
How many times had she been imprisoned? And why didn’t that knowledge sit well with me? Heavy footsteps in the corridor interrupted the thought. The Heartless One let himself into our rooms, his scarred face surveying the setup with obvious displeasure.
“Convenient,” he said, though his dark eyes suggested he found it anything but.
“Something you need?” I kept my voice neutral, though something about his protective stance irritated me more than it should have.
“Checking on my friend. Making sure she’s comfortable. And alive.”
The word ‘friend’ carried weight. History. The kind of loyalty that got people killed.
“She’s fine.”
“I’ll decide that for myself.” He settled against the wall like a guard dog claiming territory. “Hope you don’t mind the company. Feel free to go back to your corner, hunter.”
I minded. But starting a fight with the world’s most notorious assassin over who got to protect a witch seemed like poor tactical planning.
From her room, the witch’s voice carried warm affection. “Calder, you don’t have to?—”
“I do.” Simple. Final. “Sleep well, Syn.”
Syn. The intimacy in that single syllable lingered. The Heartless One kept his vigil. Footsteps passed occasionally, guards on patrol, servants delivering meals, other personnel going about their duties. Normal compound activity.
I’d been reviewing tactical reports a subordinate had brought for perhaps an hour when different footsteps approached. Measured. Deliberate. Familiar.
My father appeared in my doorway.
I stood immediately, military precision in every line of my body. “Sir.”
Tiberius Veyne entered, his stern eyes sweeping every detail. The proximity of the rooms. The unlocked doors. The way the magical ribbon, now visible, connected our quarters like a chain.
“Interesting accommodations.” He stepped further into the room. “Explain.”
“Binding protocols, sir. Apparently, the tether can’t be stretched any farther than this.”
“I’m not asking about the housing arrangement. If you’ll remember, that was my order.” He moved closer, close enough that I could smell the leather of his gloves, the steel of his blades. “I’m asking about this.”
He grabbed my wrist, turning it to expose the Hunter’s Promise, the mark burned into my palm. The crescent moonsmirrored each other like a brand of ownership. The one that matched hers.
“A Hunter’s Promise,” he continued. “Given in public. Care to explain why my son would make such a spectacularly foolish decision? That witch’s death should belong to whomever I decide. Not you.”
Training kept my spine straight, my voice steady. “Tactical necessity, sir. Other hunters were targeting her for elimination. The Promise keeps her the most useful to me.”
“Does it?” His grip tightened until I felt bones shift. “And you decided this without consultation? Without orders? Without consideration for how it appears?”
“I prioritized mission success over appearances.”
Wrong answer.
His backhand didn’t surprise me. It never did. The impact rattled through the common area, though neither of ourguestswould dare interrupt the Magistrate. Syneca was defiant, but not suicidal, I’d decided.
