“You were an orphan?”
She hadn’t expected that. He seemed so sure of himself and his place in the world. She couldn’t picture him as young and scared and alone.
“Hmm.”
She waited to see if he added anything to that, but he remained silent.
“Is that why you became a witch hunter? The Church took you in when you were a child and this is how you repay them?”
He was big on paying debts, she’d noticed. Look at how he kept trying to send her to the Academy.
The corners of his eyes crinkled with amusement. “No one is forcing me to hunt witches, Rowan. I joined the service because I believe in the work.”
Right.
Best to remember that.
No matter how many warped animals he saved her from, no matter how pretty he was, he was still a witch hunter and she was still…well, not a witch exactly. Not really. But something she couldn’t share with him. Which was a shame. He might know more about her than she did. She’d never met anyone else who could do what she did. It was lonely.
“Why? This is wretched work. Do they pay you so much? Is it the glory?”
Maybe it was worth it to have women throwing themselves at him in the capital. Though looking at his face, he wouldn’t have to work this hard for that to happen anyway. Was it possible he wasn’t aware of it? Maybe she should tell him so.
He hesitated a moment and then said, “My mother was killed by a witch.”
She froze on her knees with her arms stretched around him to pull the bandage across his back. It was an intimate position, though they were hardly touching.
She stared at him.
His gaze ran over her face and the corner of his mouth tilted in a smile that held no humor. “It does happen, you know. Witches kill people with poisons and potions and charms all the time. Even the ones not demon-ridden can cause a lot of damage before they’re stopped.”
She finished wrapping the bandage around him and tied it off, then rocked back onto her heels. “What happened?”
She didn’t think he was going to answer. His expression hardened and he stood, grabbed a dry shirt from his bag and pulled it over his head. He settled it over his shoulders and ran a hand through his damp hair.
Then he looked down at her and extended his hand. “Your hands are like ice. Let me warm you up, and I’ll tell you the story.”
It was a dangerous offer. She could feel it.
It was one thing to look at him, another to touch.
He raised an eyebrow in challenge, a faint smile curving his mouth. “You’re not afraid of me, are you?”
She wassoafraid of him.
But she shook her head anyway and took his hand.
“Never,” she said.
And he pulled her up.
21
Casrian released her as soon as she was standing. She wrapped her blanket tightly around her shoulders while he fetched another. Their belongings were piled against the trunk of the largest tree, beneath the oilcloth shelter. He settled there, setting his back against his saddle and stretching his long legs out in front of him. He opened his arms in invitation.
She hesitated.
She’d never been in the arms of a man before, and she wasn’t sure the witch hunter was the best man to start with. But he would be warm, and there was no fire. He had an extra blanket too. It was the smart thing to do, share the blankets, share their warmth. Get some rest after another awful day, with who knew what was to come tomorrow.
