Page 14 of The Deathless One (The Gravesinger #1)

This wasn’t real, she told herself. It was an illusion. Because he wasn’t here. She had to have faith in the spell she had cast, so no matter how hard he squeezed, no matter how much it felt like she had to hold her breath, it wasn’t actually happening.

“You’re not here,” she wheezed. “This is… all in my head.”

“Is it?” Every muscle in her body clenched, and that strange heat seared through her as his lips brushed against the seashell of her ear and his voice rumbled. “Then perhaps we should see how far I can go before this dream turns into a nightmare.”

Should she let him? That hand on her stomach flexed, his fingers brushing down until they touched one of her hips, his pinky hovering over the other.

He was so much larger than her. She hadn’t realized it until this moment, when he’d almost consumed her.

Enveloped her. Dragged her deeper into this darkness that whispered, You want this .

She’d wanted to feel powerful, hadn’t she? Bending a god to her will would do that. Making a god service her, telling him exactly what she wanted and where she wanted him to touch.

All it would take was a single nod. She just had to let him know, and she knew those wicked fingers would slide between her legs. He would touch her, finding her wet and waiting for him to bring her to that pleasure that no man had managed before. But surely a god…

He’d inspired madness—a seed of insanity in her mind—because this was not her. She’d never had thoughts like this before. Gasping, she wrenched herself free of his grip. She had to get away from him, from what he would do…

From how he made her feel.

Rioting emotions turned her head upside down and inside out. She didn’t know what he wanted from her, or what she wanted from him. The strange heat wouldn’t let her go, not even when she knocked over the candle and scrambled away from him.

Her back hit the altar hard enough that the slab groaned, shifting on its base even as he strode toward her. “You’re not real. All of this is an illusion you’ve cast,” she muttered.

The Deathless One paused in front of her, waiting for her eyes to trail up his impossibly tall form before he growled, “You and I are bound, Jessamine. Have you forgotten that? I gave you life. No spell can keep me away from you. Not even you can control that.”

But then a gust of wind blew through the shattered window, and his form disappeared on the tail of it.

She was left alone in the dark room with a guttering candle lying on its side and the scattered remains of a spell that hadn’t worked. Or maybe it had worked too well.

She stood, shook herself off, and closed the spell book like its pages were the cause of all this. Feeling stripped and hollow, she ran her shaking fingers through her hair. What had that been? How had he made her feel like that?

Carefully gathering the spell book, she clutched it to her chest and made her way to the door. She knocked on it, hesitant in her hope that she wouldn’t have to spend the night in here until she finally decided to free the Deathless One.

“Sybil?” she called out. “Can I please come out now?”

Silence from the other side made her stomach twist with nausea. Was this the plan? Were they going to lock her in here, starving her in the hopes that she would eventually give in?

Torture wasn’t something she thought she could survive. Though she was strong, she’d never really suffered in her life until recently, and… ending that suffering was all too tempting. Look at how easily she’d trusted a kind stranger just because Sybil had promised her a safe place to sleep.

Maybe she was alone here. This would be her prison and her tomb until she did what they wanted her to do.

Sighing, she thudded her forehead against the door. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” she whispered, sending the words out to anything that might help her. “I’m no longer a princess. No longer a daughter. I’m not a witch. I am nothing and no one, and I do not know what to do.”

The lock clicked and the door eased open slowly, drawing her head with it until she had to stagger forward into the hall beyond.

Her eyes caught first on the moss at the edges of the floor where it met the walls, emerald green and dotted with tiny white flowers.

Then she dragged her gaze to the woman on the other side of the door, her dark features creased with worry.

Sybil held out her arm, gesturing that Jessamine should walk ahead of her. “A witch is never alone.”

With a snort of disbelief, Jessamine staggered down the hall. “I find that hard to believe. Why is she never alone? Because other witches are always going to be with her?”

“No. Because any witch worth her salt has a patron, and that patron is always with them. Strengthening them. It is a gift as much as it is a… burden.”

She heard the weight in that last word. Turning, she made eye contact with Sybil and watched as the other woman’s eyes drifted down to her throat.

“What?” Jessamine found herself asking. “Did he make the scar worse?”

“No,” Sybil muttered. “But I did not think what he left behind was possible, considering you aren’t part of our coven.”

What could possibly happen now? She lifted a hand and touched her throat, gently stroking the scar there as though it might hurt to touch. But when she drew her fingers away, she was surprised to find them smudged with black.

Like charcoal. She rubbed her fingers together, letting the darkness smear from finger to finger. So it had been real. He hadn’t been lying to her.

He’d been in the room with her. The Deathless One had touched her, pulled her against his warm muscles and held her throat like he owned her. Like he had a right to touch her however he wanted, and she…

Hadn’t minded?

No, that definitely wasn’t how she felt. She minded very much. She didn’t like that he’d touched her at all, and that was the story she was sticking to. Even if it gave her a certain thrill to know that she must have a black handprint around her neck.

Sybil caught her hand, holding Jessamine’s fingers out to look at the substance still clinging to her. “Magic,” she muttered. “He left a magical residue on you.”

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know.” The witch looked perplexed before she narrowed her eyes on Jessamine. “What happened in there?”

Jessamine quickly ran through what she had done, stammering her explanation for why, as though it made a difference. “I don’t want anyone to tell me what to do anymore. I have lived that way my entire life, and for once I just want to make my own decisions.”

The troubled expression never left Sybil’s face.

“We need to teach you more spells. If he’s going to be like this as your patron, then you need to learn how to protect yourself.

The gravesingers I knew centuries ago could connect with multiple patrons if they wished, but he is a dangerous one to choose.

The longer you are with him, the tighter your bond will tie you. Do you understand?”

“Like a noose?”

Sybil flinched, but then gave her the smallest of nods. “You will want to avoid that fate.”

“Isn’t he your patron as well?”

The stiff silence was enough of an answer.

Jessamine turned her hand in Sybil’s grip, holding on to the witch now with what she hoped was surprising strength. “How can you stand to serve a god like that?”

With a wince, Sybil pulled herself free. “We all do foolish things for a taste of power, do we not?”

Jessamine found herself unsettled by the truth of that statement. As they walked away, she cast one more glance back toward that room of power and knew she would do more foolish things. Likely soon.

Because the mark of his power on her skin had only created more questions. And Jessamine wanted answers.