She’s hanging from her wrists, wearing a ridiculous excuse for clothing. The guards took her cloak and portaling device, leaving her in a scrap of silk. It takes all my hard-won self-control not to look at her body.
It makes me hate her more.
“Is that supposed to pass for black?” It is, at best, plum.
I can feel her burst of emotions as if she’s right in front of me, as if there aren’t any bars between us.
I feel the prickle of embarrassment, just as I watch her skin prickle. She notices my gaze. She blamesme, somehow, for her current circumstances.
She’s the one who went against my orders. She’s the one who portaled directly into the market, of all places, guaranteeing exposure.
“Demon,” she calls me, and she isn’t wrong.
“Fool,” I reply.
I turn her restraints to ash, and she falls to the floor. Her spike of pain feels like ice against my skin. I keep forgetting how fragile she seems to be.
“You swore not to return,” I say.
She has the gall to argue with me. Everyone who has ever tried has ended up dead.
She will end up dead too, I suppose.
Our words fling back and forth, like just another duel. She’s so stubborn I might actually mean it when I turn to go, threatening to leave her here. She cries out, and I almost roll my eyes.
“You’re keeping me here?”
How dare she sound so outraged? How dare she feel shock andhurt?
“You appear in my realm, using a stolen relic. You stab me in the chest. You return and hide in my chambers. Then, you return yet again and attack an innocent man in the middle of the street.”
Her flare of anger is like fire in this cold, dark place. “Innocent? He wanted to scalp me and sell my hair by the strand!”
I found that man. I found him barely clinging to life, slumped in an alley.
I finished the job for her.
“What type of people did you expect to encounter at the night market, Hearteater?” I say the word mockingly, even though its edges have softened in my mind.
“My name is Isla,” she says, green eyes gleaming with fury. Its flames dance across my skin. She has the nerve to glare at me right through the bars.
“I will never call you that,” I say.
“Why?”
I look down at her. “Calling someone by their first name is a sign of familiarity. Of respect.”
Her nostrils flare. “You don’t respect me?”
I shrug a shoulder. “You don’t seem to respect your own life. Why should I?”
She scoffs. “Fine. Don’t respect me. I don’t care. You weren’t why I came here.”
The witch is powerless, yet her words have wounded me. I frown. “Clearly. Whyareyou here?” I demand.
“Why areyouhere?” she asks.
My plan. I’m glad she has reminded me of it. “I believe ... we might be able to help each other. I have a deal for you.”
