Page 22 of Burn Her They Said
“Of course,” I say, reaching forward.
The chill of the metal bowl bites into the pads of my fingers as I scan the room, ensuring no one else notices.
“Don’t,” Hendry warns, the closer I bring the dish to our esteemed guest.
“Thank you,” Dimitri says, as I set the small gold ramekin next to his plate.
I smile in response and flick my gaze over to Hendry to make a point. Then my hand shakes as I pick up my fork to stab at a slice of roasted vegetable, having to clamp down hard to force the piece of it between my teeth. Then the familiar heat builds in the center of my chest, searing as it proceeds to climb up my neck.
Anticipation and fear shift to a feeling of safety and comfort—a trick brought on by old emotions. Simply a reminder of what I once felt near the sorcerer inducing this current reaction.
The heat claws its way into my cheeks while the strength of our invisible tether pulls taut around my heart.
I abandon my fork and force my gaze lower to study my tightly held fists in my lap, unable to tolerate the consequence of glancing up at the sorcerer powerful enough to conjure this unnatural sensation before my eyes ever recognize his presence.
“Are you feeling unwell, Imperial Grand Witch Tasch?” Dimitri Royce asks, concern lacing his tone.
I shake my head and attempt to ignore this growing urge—this burgeoning need—to look where Varic surely must be staring over. Then fear spears through my being, pressuring me further to ensure I am not hallucinating—not somehow forcing this warmth while pulling up some past memory to experience what his presence always does to me. Increasing the need to know he’s unharmed. To know that he has made it here safe. That some terrible accident hasn’t befallen him. Nor that he refused to attend, thus garnering the Emperor’s wrath as a consequence.
I can’t. I can’t look.
But I also can’t keep from looking.
Heart kicking, slamming, and breaking to pieces, I lose all resolve. My lungs constrict as I betray everyone’s best interest by lifting my gaze to those impossibly bright brown eyes staring at mine.
He’s here. He’s okay. He made it.
Fuck.
His plush lips curve in a subtle smile, deepening the lines at the edge of his eyes as our confounding connection allows him to send me an abundance of joy—overwhelming in its genuine expression.
I swallow nothing, stomach fluttering as I look away, though nothing will hide me from this sorcerer who sees past my armor. My vision blurs as I force another bite through my lips, incapable of ignoring the tingling summoned by his attention.
* * *
Varic’s rough, warm hand skating around the small of my back.
* * *
I slam my eyes shut, jaw working as I desperately pull on my mental wards, needing anything to block these fantasies from infiltrating. Needing to prevent the visions I use to survive the darkest moments—though they aren’t visions. I shouldn’t think of them as such. These are only fantasies.
None of it has ever happened between us—nor can it—so it should not prove to be as comforting as it seems, knowing it can never come to fruition.
Because Varic and I can never be free to make our own choices nor act on our feelings.
* * *
He closes the front door behind him, greeting me with a vibrant smile that tugs on my heart after missing him all day. His eyes beam with pride the moment our daughter runs and jumps into his arms, and he spins her around, fanning her brown waves out behind her.
* * *
Their shared laughter trills inside my chest, as if this were a memory rather than a fabrication of a life I dream of regularly. Swallowing against the tightness in my throat, I try to distract from the flesh throbbing beneath my fingernails, piercing through the leather of my pants.
“My little witch,” Emperor Aldritch says, and my heart plummets as I pull in a breath to help neutralize my expression. “Keep your eyes open. Have you no manners?” He grabs my shoulder and shoves me until I am forced to face him, so his eyes can trace a line starting in the center of my chest up to my heated cheeks.
Raki’s tail swings faster as the Emperor runs his cold finger over my cheek, and I flinch. “What is this lacy rash?” he asks, glaring up at Cirrin. “Heal her. She seems to be having a reaction. Look,” Emperor Aldritch commands, ushering Cirrin to look as the deep brown of his cheeks stains wine red, knowing as well as I do this flush is one his magic cannot prevent.
Not with a particular sorcerer present.
