Page 5 of Burn Her They Said
Chapter Two
Connection
My boots sink deep into the canvas flooring with each cautious step forward. I pull in a breath, lungs filling with the scent of incense rising from golden bowls set on either of the bedside tables. Tension long held in my shoulders relents now that the cloying stench of death is hidden beneath the woody scent, encouraging a small spiral of gratitude to swirl within my chest.
Yet the moment of reprieve does not last for long, with my Guards following closer behind me than usual as we all pass by the thick canvas partition bisecting the tent.
Turning to my Lead Guard with brows raised in a question, he silently gestures to the large wooden bed where a sorcerer-shaped lump lies under the thin white covers.
A strange sensation strikes the center of my being, tingling within each of my limbs, and urges me to launch myself forward with the distinct need to touch the sorcerer hiding himself.
I shake my head, yet no matter how hard I try to fight this, the need burrows deeper, blooming in my abdomen, tugging me toward him as it overrides the tension held in my muscles.
Every step forward is stilted as I resist, boots scraping roughly over the fibers in the canvas. No amount of unwillingness seems to halt my trajectory. It’s as if some spell has been cast to form an unbreakable tether, weaving our heartstrings together. Because the closer I am forced to be near this sorcerer, the more I feel a strange need to both know and be known by him. Something I have never truly yearned for on my own.
Feeling grateful that my Guards do not question my well-being as they witness this display of odd behavior, they keep their mouths shut as they observe me with thinly veiled confusion while I fail to hide any outward signs of this internal war with myself.
One of my shins meets the bedframe, and I come to a halt. My heart hammers while I breathe in the comforting scent of the incense, then almost release a peal of laughter when I stare at the contrast between us—the Imperial black fabric of my dress draping over the thin white blanket Sergeant Varic uses as a shield, of sorts.
My magic acts of its own volition, sending yellow swirls of curiosity from my mind to the area where a subtle undulation indicates the Sergeant’s steady breaths in the rise and fall of his chest.
Intensity and overwhelm invade my whole body the longer my magic maintains this connection and siphons the jumble of his emotions. Each one is nearly indiscernible as many colorful threads form knots, which I attempt to digest for him. The only commonality between the emotions is that of a warm amber hue surrounding the whole—the shade of his magical signature, or the way I interpret it.
Curious, I press further in until my magic slams into a figurative wall.
Of course, the most powerful force sorcerer would use mental wards.
Drawing in a breath, I prepare to try again as a pressure unlike anything I’ve ever known collides inside my abdomen, and it feels as if this tormented sorcerer then sends a torrent of emotions to me.
But he can’t. Only witches are trained in this ability.
Hendry’s hands land on each of my arms, steadying me. “What is it?”
I shake my head. “I’m okay. Just let me do this.”
He nods and releases his hold while maintaining his proximity.
Every one of my Guards stares from me to the sorcerer hidden beneath the covers, their expressions filled with a mix of confusion and concern, distracting me from the need to pretend I am taking the rehabilitation of this sorcerer seriously.
Focusing, I draw on my mental wards, scrambling for purchase as I’m unable to conjure them. Fear floods my veins, uncertain why my wards are not working, as I rely on them too regularly to assume it’s anything I am doing wrong in summoning their protection.
I raise my hand in silent command, and Hendry turns to share a pointed look with the rest, encouraging each of them to step back while my pulse pounds. Unsure of how to proceed, since nothing has gone to plan, and with this being the first time I have ever been in charge of a mission, I need to prove I can do this. That I can manage without the Emperor dictating my every last breath and action.
Fuck it.
Let’s get this over with.
“Sergeant Varic,” I begin, then falter with the shifting of the covers.
Anticipation ripples through me as the fabric cascades down the Sergeant’s form to reveal a rumpled, shirtless sorcerer staring up at me with a hint of curiosity. Cheeks heating from the playfulness in the quirking of his brow, I shift my gaze up to study his disheveled brown waves with strands spilling over his forehead.
Sunlight illuminates the canvas around us, casting an orange glow over his warm golden-brown skin, and heat of another kind swarms my body with an unfamiliar tingling blooming in the center of my chest, broadening with the awareness of his gaze studying me while my own eyes trace the fullness of his lips, then the angular cut of his jaw.
My eyes drop lower in study of the way the shadows define every muscle in his chest and stomach. The corded muscles along each of his arms ripple as he leans back over the plush mattress. My cheeks burn when I avoid his gaze and drop my own where a patch of curly black hair trails beneath the black band of his underwear.
I swallow in discomfort from my inability to treat him with the respect he deserves, as I am here to feign healing him from grief and despair, not to objectify him in the same way others lust over the façade I must wear.
Lifting my gaze to address him, I stop and stare at the silver lightning-bolt-shaped scars running along either side of his hips—the same spindly pattern conjured in the center of a force sorcerer’s palm just before they blast…
