Page 100 of The Witch They Fear

"And on a good night, if I'm lucky, he forgets I exist for a couple of hours and I get to come to things like this." His eyes flick to me. "Is that enough for you, Witch?"

"Are you—"

"Don't ask if I'm okay."

"I wasn't going to."

"Yes you were."

"I was going to ask if you've been like this a long time."

He looks at me.

"Yes."

"How long?"

"Longer than you've been alive, Hex."

It lands in my stomach like a stone. I look at his face—the scar, the storm-blue eyes, the careful hold of his shoulders—and I think of every dry throwaway line he's tossed at me in three weeks, the casual Witch, the casual Hex, the night I threw him across my lawn and he laughed up at me from the grass like I'd given him a Christmas present, and somewhere underneath all of that is a man who has been somebody's tool for longer than I have been a person.

I close my eyes and the world tilts. I'm suddenly very tired.

I put my left hand against the trunk of the tree. The bark scratches my palm.

He's in front of me before I see him move.

His hand is at my low back. The other hovers near my elbow, not quite touching the sling. The contact is light and very firm and very, very fast.

"Sit," he says. "Down. Against the tree. Now, Hex, sit."

I sit. I half-fall into it. The bark catches my back, the wet grass goes through my dress, and Kage crouches on his haunches with his elbows on his knees and his face level with mine. He hasn't let go of my low back yet.

"Hands," he says. "Show me."

I show him my left hand. He holds it. His palm is hot.

"Are you breathing?"

"I think so."

"Breathe deeper. You stood up too long. Are you light-headed, do you need water, do you need food, what, tell me."

"Just—give me a second."

He gives me a second. He moves to sit beside me—back against the tree, shoulder almost against mine, careful with the sling between us. His hand is no longer on my back. I notice when it goes.

I close my eyes. The dizzy passes. My pulse settles. The fire rumbles in the distance through the quad. A cluster of laughter goes up somewhere.

"Thank you."

"Don't do that either."

"Sorry."

"Stop apologizing. Stop thanking me and stop apologizing. Just tell me how you are."

"Better."