If she lay down now on the cold, hard ground with wet hair and damp clothes, her muscles would stiffen and she’d probably make herself sick. She should take comfort where she could get it, shouldn’t she? Even if it came from the witch hunter.
“I’ll keep my hands to myself,” he promised. “Even if you beg me to touch you.”
“I’m never going to beg you for anything.”
He gave a low laugh. “You’ve got nothing to worry about then, do you?”
She didn’t know about that. He was dangerous in all sorts of ways. But she did move toward him. His smile flashed white in the dim light. Ignoring it, she curled up beside him, her body going stiff as soon as they made contact. Her hip pressed against his. Her head fit right against his shoulder like it belonged there. His arms closed around her like a trap.
“You’re too cold,” he murmured, his breath stirring her hair.
It wasn’t the cold making her shiver. It was his warmth and strength and scent, all combined to draw her in closer. Being tucked up in his arms felt better than she’d expected. Which was bad. She was too attracted to him already.
Gingerly, she rested her hand against his chest because there was nowhere else for it to go. He shifted his body so they were pressed more tightly together. The thud of his heart was steady beneath her palm.
“The story?”
He gave a short, bitter laugh. “I don’t know where to start. Everyone in Aresdal knows about it.”
“Scandalous, is it?”
“Lurid. A great House. Sex, murder, and witchcraft. All these years later, it stands as a favorite cautionary tale from the high court to the brothels.”
“I doubt it’s made its way to Toam.”
“Finally one thing to recommend the place.”
She tapped his chest in rebuke.
“You should feel honored. You’ll get the whole, true story and not one of the more fanciful versions floating about.”
“I won’t tell anyone if you don’t want me to,” she said. “You can swear me to secrecy.”
“I trust you.”
“Do you?”
“Hmmm.” She was starting to warm. At least her bones had stopped shaking. She settled in closer against him. When he started to speak, she felt the deep rumble of his voice beneath her cheek.
“Very well,” he murmured. “The story begins before my birth. My mother was a servant of the old Lord Dain. When she was sixteen, she made the mistake of falling in love with the youngest son of the House. She became pregnant and was dismissed from service. My father purchased a townhome for her and set her up as his mistress. I was born. Years later, my father became betrothed to another woman. It was a political match, but my mother was heartbroken. Inconsolably so. So she purchased a potion and gave it to him.”
“Love potions don’t work.”
That’s what Tilly said anyway, and she should know. She sold enough of the things. They were her most popular product in the bigger towns.
He shrugged. “This one did. Though not in the way she hoped. My father became freshly obsessed with her. He broke off the betrothal and moved into the townhome. Refused to leave my mother’s side, taking her everywhere.” He paused. “She was thrilled at first. His family was scandalized and barred them from attending society gatherings. I was six at the time, and he became jealous of me for any attention my mother gave me. I remember him locking me in the cellar to keep me away. He’d throw food down to me like a dog. If my mother hugged me, I would be hauled out of her arms and punished.”
“I’m sorry.”
No child should be treated like that.
Casrian’s arm tightened slightly around her shoulders. “He eventually sent me out into the street and told me not to come back. I knew who his father was, or at least I knew he waspowerful. My mother had pointed out their home. I went there for help. At first, they tried to turn me away, but I had nowhere else to go, so after two nights of sleeping on their front step, I was allowed in to speak to my father’s oldest brother. He hadn’t known about the potion. When I told him, he went to the townhome intending to drag my father home and take him to the Church to purge him of the curse. By that time, my father had barricaded himself inside with my mother. When his brother tried to break in, my father slit my mother’s throat.”
She drew in a sharp breath.
Casrian caught her hand in his and pressed his thumb lightly against her palm, gently uncurling her fingers, like she was the one who needed to be comforted. “He intended to kill himself too so they would never be separated. My uncle got to him first and was able to wrestle the knife away.”
She pictured him at six, a small, blond-haired boy going to beg for help from people who should have been his family only for it to end in bloodshed.
