Truthwitch (The Witchlands 1)

Safi bristled. “I suppose you’re still mad at me.”

Merik’s only response was to chew faster and stare harder at the map and contract.

“I deserve it,” she added, dragging a step closer and thrusting away her temper’s desire for ignition. Now was her chance to talk to Merik alone—to finally apologize for … for everything. He couldn’t flee and there was no one to interrupt. “I made a mistake,” she added, hoping her expression looked as sincere as it felt.

Merik gulped back a glass of water and wiped his mouth in a most un-Merik-like way. Then he finally hauled his gaze to Safi. “A ‘mistake’ makes it sound like it was an accident, Domna. What you did to my crew and my first mate was calculated malice.”

“Calculated what?” Indignation towed at Safi’s jaw. “That’s not true, Prince. I never meant to endanger Kullen or your men—and my power says that you don’t even believe what you’re saying.”

That shut him up—although his nostrils did stay flared and Safi thought he might choke if he guzzled his water any faster.

She scooted around the stool that held his jacket.

He immediately stepped away two feet. The chart and agreement rustled over the wood.

Safi thrust out her chin, and this time she advanced three more steps—right up to his side.

And with a harsh exhale, he stomped all the way around to the opposite side of the table.

“Really?” she cried. “Am I that awful to be around?”

“You are.”

“I just want to look at the agreement!” She tossed her hands high. “Shouldn’t I know what my uncle expects from you? Expects from me?”

Merik’s posture turned stony, but at last he offered a resigned sigh—and when Safi strode around the table, he stayed firmly in place. Though his shoulders did rise to his ears, and Safi didn’t think she imagined how quickly his breaths came.

“Relax,” she muttered, bowing over the contract. “I’m not going to bite.”

“Has the feral lion been tamed, then?”

“Look at that,” Safi purred, sharing her most feline sideways grin. “It has a sense of humor.”

“Look at that,” he retorted, “it’s trying to change the subject.” He dug a pointed finger into the agreement. “Read the cursed contract, Domna, and go away.”

Her smile sank into a glare and she bent down, resting her elbows on the table and pretending as if this was the very first time she’d ever read the agreement.

Except, it was a different read-through this time. The language of the contract was unchanged, yet the way Safi felt about it, the way it gnawed at her stomach …

All negotiations on page two of this contract will terminate should Merik Nihar fail to bring the passenger to Lejna, should the passenger spill any blood, or should the passenger die.

Her knee started juddering. She had been so close to spilling blood—or dying—when she’d fought the sea fox. And though she’d do it all again for Iseult, she could have done it differently. Safi could have considered the risks first and thought outside of herself.

But what Safi really hated—what made her itch to draw knives and eviscerate something—was that Uncle Eron had put this requirement in the contract at all.

She swallowed, rage scalding the back of her throat. “My uncle is a real horse’s ass. Spilling blood is ridiculous and could happen from a paper cut. He knows that, and I’m sure he added this on purpose. I’m sorry.”

The room’s sweltering air burned hotter. It practically shimmered with Safi’s apology, and for several long heartbeats, Merik regarded her.

Then a smile brushed over his lips. “I don’t think you’re apologizing for your uncle right now. At least not entirely.”

Safi bit her lip and held his gaze. She wanted him to see what she felt. She needed him to read the regret in her eyes.

His smile crooked higher and with a nod that could almost be interpreted as an acceptance of her apology, he turned back to the contract. “Your uncle simply wants you unharmed. He was quite emphatic on that point, and it’s only natural that he’d be particular about his niece’s health.”

“My uncle,” she said, twirling a careless hand, “would deem me in perfect health even if I’d been stabbed four times and pegged with a hundred arrows. You could probably maim me, Prince, and my uncle wouldn’t bat an eye.”

Merik snorted. “Let’s not try it, all right?” With a sigh, he slanted inward until his left arm rested almost against Safi’s. Until the smell of him expanded in her nose. Saltwater, sweat, and sandalwood.

It wasn’t terribly unpleasant. Not to mention she found she couldn’t look away from his exposed wrists—easily twice the size of hers—or the fine hairs on his forearms.

“What about,” Merik asked softly, carefully, “your betrothed? How would Emperor Henrick feel if you were pegged with a hundred arrows?”

In less than a blink, Safi’s blood hit a boil in her ears. Why was Merik asking her about Henrick? And why did she feel like the fate of the world rested on the answer?

When at last she attempted to speak, her voice was taut as a bowstring. “Henrick isn’t my betrothed. I can’t accept that. I won’t. One moment, I was dancing with you at the ball, and the next…” She gave a harsh laugh. “The next moment, Emperor Henrick was declaring me his future bride.”