“When they brought me here…” he starts, and then stops abruptly.
“What?”
The witches’ jaw works for a moment, like he’s trying to decide what to say. A frustrated look passes over his face.
“What,witch?” I snap again.
“Nothing,” he mutters, and bends his head down to avoid my gaze.
We do the rest of the work in angry silence.
It takes us hours to get through all of the dishes and cooking-ware, cleaning the tables, sweeping the floors. He mops up the water he spilled while I empty the wash-bucket out the window and set it back beside the reservoir.
It’s late when we’re done, closer to dawn than dusk. I’m exhausted, my bones weary with all the failed hopes of the day. I should be on Rancor, heading south to the Tower. I should have the sea wind in my hair and the blue ship’s light bathing my skin.
Not this endless drudgery, beside the King of Witches.
I’d like to tie the witch up in the dankest, most unpleasant place I can find, and leave him to rot while I get some sleep. But the moment the idea occurs to me I remember the way he threw the bucket of water over the dishes on the counter. I could command him not to hurt anybody, but he still might find a loophole.
Better to keep him in my sight, where I can make sure he isn’t harming anybody. I'm sure he'd like to kill every single one of us if given the chance.
I drag myself to my chamber. His footsteps sound heavy as he follows. The witch freezes in the doorway, illuminated only by the oil lamp I’m carrying. It’s a small stone room, a narrow bed pressed against the far wall and my belongings stuffed entirely into the trunk at the foot of the bed.
“If you command me into your bed, the gods will curse yoursoul,” he rasps. His nostrils flare and every muscle in his body looks tense. Even his neck is corded with strain.
I grimace, set the lamp on the windowsill, and sit on the edge of the mattress to peel my boots off.
“As if I’d want you.”
He’s beautiful, and chiseled, in a way that makes my body all too aware of how close he is even in the doorway. It’s a small room, and it’s been years since I had any pleasure that didn’t come from my own hands. His body, and his face, on a man who wasn’t a witch? No hesitation. But I would sooner gut myself than couple withhim.And I’d never use enchantment that way, on anyone.
“I may be chained to your will, but I'd rather saw my own arm…” he starts, making his own, nearly identical, thoughts on the matter extremely clear.
At least we have that in common.
He shuts up as I grab the folded blanket from the foot of the bed and throw it straight at his face. The witch catches it out of the air before it hits. I don’t need him getting sick from cold.
“You can sleep on the floor. If you touch me, I’ll stab you. If you bother anybody, I’ll stab you. If you try to escape...”
“You’ll stab me,” he mutters. “I doubt your precious War-Father would like that.”
I only have one pillow, and he doesn’t deserve it.
I strip my outer wear, tossing it into a corner. I’m glad for the sword. I know he’s magically bound not to hurt me, but I’ll sleep better with it in my bed.
The witch looks away as I peel my clothes off, staring out the window, blanket still clutched in his big arms. Like he doesn’t want to see. On a Hellion filled to the brim with sailors, you get over shyness fast. I slip on an oversized nightshirt and peel off my under things beneath it. Then I blow out the lantern, plunging the room into darkness held at bay only by the thin light of the moon.
It’s eerie, being in the dark with him. Every inch of my skin isalert, my hair on edge, my heart beating fast. I climb under the cool, scratchy sheets and wrap my metal hand around my sword’s hilt for comfort.
Only when I’m beneath my covers does he begin to settle himself on the floor.
The shuffling noise of the witch setting up his blanket stops. I keep staring up into the shadows, not wanting to look at him.
“You’d better not snore,” I tell him.
He snorts.
“You sleep with that on you?”
