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He thought of Bryanna as one of his wife’s siblings, nothing more.
    Of course he does. He’s in love with his wife. His wife , Bryanna. You are a wicked woman to want it any other way. Maybe, just maybe, those voices in your head, the ones that insist you’re a witch, maybe they’re true. Maybe your heart is as black as obsidian.
    Her throat was suddenly thick. Envy slid through her blood and Bryanna hated herself for her wayward thoughts.
    Despite the warring emotions burning through her obviously damned soul, she pretended all was as it should be, that she was embarking upon a great adventure and would soon return safely. She gave a final wave and blinked back the tears of regret that burned her eyes.
    Urging her jennet to a quicker pace, she felt the mare, Alabaster, a gift from her sister, respond by flattening out, ground-eating strides ever lengthening. Bryanna pushed all thoughts of Calon and Morwenna and him out of her head. With resolve, she turned in her saddle and faced forward, her eyes focused on the frozen road leading north, though she knew it would not be an easy path. The wind whistled in her ears and tugged at her hair as the sturdy stone walls of Calon faded behind her.
    Away from her sister.
    Away from Calon.
    Away from him.
    And into the unknown.
    For, according to a voice as clear as a night bell, the voice of a woman already in her grave, north was where her destiny lay.
    If she could believe such rot.
     
Sixteen years .
    Cursed for sixteen long, unforgiving years since he’d stoned the witch to death and seen her spirit rise to mock him. Sixteen years spent enduring the bloody curse that had been a weight upon his back. ’Twas as if he’d been living in uffern, his own private hell.
    And yet he’d survived.
    Hallyd’s fingers curled into tight fists as he stood upon the battlements of Chwarel and stared into the thick night. He was alone, the guard for the east wall asleep at his post in the tower. A lazy one was Afal, with bad teeth and a penchant for ale. Yet, the man was loyal, and that trait, above all others, secured his job.
    Frowning, Hallyd looked to the south, from whence she was riding. He felt his blood stir with a fever reminiscent of his youth. With the passing of years he was no longer young, no longer hotheaded or so easily enraged. With the passing of time came patience, strength, and stamina, honed by a conviction so deep it filled his soul.
    And now, at last, the time had come.
    His dreams of the dagger had not faded and his ambitions, as double-edged as the blade, would serve two purposes: to cast off the black spell and absorb the vast power of the Sacred Dagger.
    She was approaching.
    Bryanna.
    Daughter of the witch.
    Squinting through the crenels of the thick curtain wall, he noticed the rising fog and heard the sound of distant hoofbeats, their steady rhythm echoing through his brain like a heartbeat.
    She was drawing near, her horse galloping toward him.
    Quicksilver warmth fired his blood and he licked his lips. His nostrils flared and he swore he smelled her scent on the slow-moving wind. Fresh and touched with lavender and musk, it rose to greet him, to cause a hardening of his cock, to burn erotic images deep into his brain.
    The winter wind was harsh, an icy blast promising more snow as it chased away the fog. His lips were chapped as he licked them again and thought of her with her alabaster skin, eyes as clear and sharp as cut emeralds. She was the one.
    He smiled to himself and dared to touch his thickening member. Oh, what he would do to her. He’d waited so long and now, soon . . . so very soon . . . he would have his way with her. He imagined first touching her firm, yielding flesh, then considered how it would feel to scrape his teeth and tongue down her back to her buttocks, where he would nip at her before turning her over and finding her breasts. She would buck up to him, wanting more, panting, snarling as he grazed her nipple with his teeth. Crying