“It’s all right,” he says and switches back to speaking with his hands. “You have no reason to trust me. You may even hate me. But please do not run. There is nowhere to go anymore.”
My spine goes rigid, and a long moment passes before I can make my hands work. “How…how do you know this language?”
The answer creeps into my mind before he replies. He’s collected dozens of Witch Walkers from our valley over the years, but there’s only one who could’ve taught him how to speak with me so adeptly. Still, I watch fervently as his right hand spells the word.
N-E-P-H-E-L-E.
My thoughts rage, as does the rest of me. The word liar screams in my mind. I charge him, shove at his chest. And though it feels like I’ve run into a wall and I’m still so weak, he falters. In that slice of time, I spot his discarded baldric and sword. It’s too far away, so I lunge for the knife sheathed in his boot instead.
He twists out of my reach, and when I begin whaling on him, clawing, he grabs my wrists and drives me back to the oak tree.
Pinning my arms against the low, thick branches, he presses the weight of his heavy body against mine—chest to chest, hip to hip, thigh to thigh. I wriggle to get free but quickly decide better of that idea. We’re breathing so hard. The friction between us is unbearable and unwanted, so I jerk my head forward and headbutt him. He yanks back, but I catch his mouth with my forehead before he can get away.
Bottom lip bleeding, he eyes me like I’m some kind of savage. Perhaps I am, in this moment at least.
“You need to calm down,” he grits out, pressing his forehead to mine, holding even that part of me at bay. “I am not your enemy. Not anymore. If you want answers, I suggest you stop trying to kill me and let me explain.”
Pressing against me once more, he jerks, a movement meant to punctuate his words. It only makes me far too aware of the body touching mine. His hot breath on my lips, those long, strong legs standing firm, that thick chest rising and falling against my own, and his rough, powerful hands holding tight.
Neither of us moves for what feels like an eternity as an unwelcome and unexpected heat coils between us. He tightens his grip, though the action doesn’t elicit pain. I unfurl my fingers, steady my breathing, and let the tension in my muscles relax, softening against him—all signs of relenting.
Because if I’ve ever needed anything, I need him to let go.
Now.
Finally, he draws his head back and peers at me, his big body still trapping mine. My surrender registers in his eyes.
He turns his head and spits blood on the ground. “No kicking, no hitting, no biting, no attacking. We talk. That’s it. All right?”
When I nod, he releases me and steps back a few paces. Eying me, he wipes his mouth on his sleeve, looking a bit rattled. Maybe he needed distance too.
For too many long moments, he studies me again. This time, his gaze traces my every line. Slowly. Eventually, he looks away, drags his fingers through his long hair, and sighs.
Why am I staring at him? Noting his every move?
I rub my wrists where his touch still lingers and push away from the tree on shaky legs. I’m just exhausted and bitter and grieving, my mind and body spent from what I’ve been through and from saving his godsdamned life. That’s all. I’m not thinking clearly.
“Thank you for not behaving like a feral animal,” he snaps, groaning when he touches his thumb to his wounded lip. He switches to speaking with his hands. “Ask your questions. I am sure you have many.”
Gods, he has no idea. Questions form so fast I have to fist my fingers in my dress while my mind sifts through which one to ask first. An exhale shudders out of me.
“Why would Nephele teach you my language?” I shape each word with force.
“Because she is my friend,” he signs. “Hard as that might be for you to believe.”
Friend? My sister is friends with this man? This man—this Witch Collector—the likes of whom we’ve dreaded the whole of our lives? More impossibility.
“Nephele taught me years ago, a way to pass time,” he signs, moving his hands with flawless precision. “And because she missed you. She made me swear I would never choose her sister on Collecting Day. Your mother needed at least one of her daughters to care for her with your father gone. I promised that Raina Bloodgood would never leave Silver Hollow. Not by my hand.”
His words are a shock to my entire being. I’ve never been chosen—not due to my lack of skill and witch’s marks—but because my mother shielded me and my sister asked the Witch Collector to spare me. I can’t wrap my mind around any of it. The thought that Mother knew what I was capable of and that my sister could ask the Witch Collector for my protection and have her wish granted seems so very wrong.
“I should have known,” I sign, pounding out judgment with my hands, every jolt making my sore chest ache. “On top of all the awful things I have come to know you to be, you are also a liar.”
The menacing way he stares at me in warning and the way his entire body stiffens almost makes me flinch. But I hold fast.
“Be sure, I am many things.” The veins in his temples and forearms stand out in relief with every sharp word. “But I am no liar.”
I motion to the valley around us. “Yet here we are. So much for your promises.”
It’s a weak accusation. He could’ve ignored his agreement with my sister and left me in the ruins of my village, alone. My anger needs release, though, and he’s my only target right now.
“Yes.” He scoffs. “Here we are.” Another infinite moment passes, his glare a hard, sharp thing. “I owe it to your sister to get you to Winterhold without harm,” he continues. “But, as I said, I am no liar, and we are running out of bloody time, so I must be honest with you about what we face. A sennight past, word reached Winterhold that the Prince of the East planned to break King Regner’s treaty with the Northlands. To be certain the news was correct, we needed a certain kind of magick. The kind only you possess. You were to be my choice for Collecting Day because your sister claims you have the true gift of Sight. But I was too late.”
He looks toward the west where blue sky fades into cloudy gray as the dying embers of Littledenn, Penrith, and Hampstead Loch release their final breaths.
I press my fingers to my temple. Too many thoughts swirl inside my mind. For one, I pray that I sent the Eastland prince to the Shadow World—for good—so he can harm no one else in whatever evil quest has possessed him. I hope that bastard is reduced to no more than a shadow wraith, lurking through the deepest, darkest pits of the Nether Reaches.