1

“Little girls shouldn’t be here.” A hand struck out, carefully circling her wrist with enough pressure to stop her, but not enough to hurt.

Kyra paused, the coin at the edge of the slot. She looked up, and Xander removed his sunglasses.

“That’s a rude comment,” she said, trying to tug from his grasp.

His mouth twisted, pale eyes narrowed as he released her wrist, only to grip her jaw. He angled her face against the light, her lip stinging when she frowned.

“What are you doing here, Kyra?” His white silver hair, just long enough to cover his unusually dark brows moved across his forehead, partially concealing his expression.

“Minding my own business!” she snapped, but the steel behind her reply lessened when she met his eyes, and flinched. “Don’t touch me.” The words came out quiet, desperate. His eyes had been blue, she was sure of it, yet she could see her own reflection in his irises made from a liquid silver.

His fingers opened, and she stumbled back, breathing heavily. She needed to get out of there before she suffered a full panic attack. Xander was just too much, his gaze too direct as she tried to look anywhere but him.

“Black witch,” he grunted, as if she were tainted.

Which she wasn’t, but she couldn’t explain why he was wrong. He wouldn’t care either way, his opinion on her already set in stone, and had been since they first met. Black witches were seen as evil because of their ability to gain power from death, and while many embraced that sordid side of magic it didn’t mean they were all evil. It did, however, make them illegal.

Ignoring him, or at least trying to as he seemed to press himself closer, always pushing her boundaries, she inserted the Ravyn into the slot, the portal opening with a flash of light. He said nothing as she stepped through, the package hugged tight to her chest, and as soon as the portal closed behind her she released a sigh of relief.

2

How did she get herself into that position? In the home of a man that hated her, a man she struggled to stay away from. He had always been clear about his feelings, yet she felt pulled by an invisible magnetism every time she saw him.

Maybe I’m just a glutton for punishment, she thought to herself before she looked up at the mirror, the dark bags beneath her eyes heavy. The cut on her lip looked as well as it could, only slightly bruised with little to no swelling.

Frederick wanted her to be the perfect subordinate, not questioning his decisions as he used her for his dubious spellcasting. If she stayed she was confident she would become a shell of herself. But if she ran she risked worse.

Kyra let out a settled breath, lifting her skirt to check the cut though her black opaque tights. The fabric stuck to both the old and new blood, the tights intact apart from the ladder across her knee. The cut beneath looked nasty, wider than she remembered.

“Take off your skirt.”

Kyra jumped, having not heard Xander re-enter the bathroom. He wore a pair of jeans, the button undone to show the deep V of his hips.

No underwear, she thought. Great.

“You’re bleeding, so take off your skirt,” Xander repeated, opening the medical tin. When she remained exactly where she was he growled. “You want to do this the easy way, or the hard way?”

“Excuse me?” she snapped.

Xander leaned forward. “You can either willingly take off your skirt, or I’ll rip it off. Your choice, Princess.”

Kyra glowered, but exhaustion beat heavily against her. “You’re an arsehole.”

“So I’ve been told,” he drawled. “But at least I don’t pretend to be anyone I’m not.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means stop arguing and take the fucking skirt off so I can treat your leg.”