The Inquisitor's Pet: A Cage of Silver and Sins

It was the smell of burning hair that got me first.

I was back in the square, the wood grain of the closet door biting into my palms as I stared through the crack. My mother looked so small, a fragile slip of grey linen against the stake. The Holy Fire didn’t burn red; it was a blinding, incandescent white that hissed as it climbed her hem.

She didn't scream. She just looked at the closet, her lips moving in a silent, desperate command: Hide, Lillian. Don't breathe. Don't let them see your eyes.

The crowd was a wall of cheering shadows, but the man in the front row was different. He wore the black robes of the Inquisition, a silver cross catching the firelight. He turned his head, and his eyes weren't filled with God—they were filled with the deep, frigid sea.

Linus Kerr.

He walked toward my hiding place, the Cold-Iron chain in his hand giving a rhythmic, deathly clink against the cobblestones. "Found you, little witch," he whispered, his voice a freezing rasp. He thrust a burning torch into the closet—

"NO—!"

I bolted upright, a shattered scream tearing through my throat. I gasped for air, but my lungs felt like they were filled with hot ash. I was drenched in sweat, my linen shirt sticking to my skin like a second, suffocating layer.

The nightmare had triggered the resonance. My blood felt like molten lead, surging through my veins with a pressure that threatened to burst my heart. I was incinerating from the inside out.

The Cold-Iron chain thrashed frantically, striking the mahogany bedpost with a series of sharp, terrifying clanks. I couldn't tell the difference between the dream and the room. I felt the collar tightening, a band of ice trying to choke a fire that wouldn't die. I clawed at my neck, my fingernails digging into my own skin, trying to pull off the torch I thought was pressing against my throat.

"Let me go... please, don't burn me..."

BANG.

The door was thrown open. A dark silhouette surged into the room like a winter gale.

Linus didn't look like he’d been sleeping. He was a man who probably treated the night like a different kind of battlefield. He saw me huddled in the corner of the bed, flailing at the air, and he didn't hesitate. He lunged across the mattress.

He seized both of my wrists in one hand, pinning them against the sheets with a grip that felt like a steel vice.

"Let go! Get away!" I shrieked. My vision was a smear of red and black. "Don't burn me... Mother... don't let them..."

I thrashed against him, my body slick with sweat, trying to buck him off. My knee slammed into his ribs, but he didn't even grunt. He was a mountain of solid muscle and cold wool, and he used every ounce of his weight to nail me into the mattress.

Absolute, crushing suppression.

His glacial chest pressed flat against my heaving, burning curves, forcing the air out of my lungs. The contrast was a violent shock—like being thrown into a frozen lake while your skin was on fire.

"Look at me!" Linus roared against my ear, his voice a low, commanding rumble that cut through the panic. "There is no fire! Lillian, look at me! You are in the Tower! Look at my eyes!"

The familiar scent of cedarwood and cold air hit me. My struggles weakened, my breath coming in ragged, sobbing hitches. My pupils finally focused, reflecting the hard, indigo face looming inches from mine.

No torch. Only Linus.

"Lin... Linus?" my voice was a broken thread.

"It's me."

He didn't move. He stayed there, pinning me down, his thighs locking mine in place. I could feel the rapid, heavy thrumming of his heart against my own.

"Cold..." I whispered, the fire in my blood still flickering. "So cold..."

Linus let out a heavy, jagged breath. He released my wrists but didn't leave. He pressed his bare, icy palm against my forehead. Biting, glorious ice. I chased the sensation instinctively, turning my head to nuzzle into his hand, my tears wetting the rough skin of his palm.

"Don't go..." I reached out and grabbed the lapel of his silk robe, my knuckles white. "Don't leave me alone in the fire."

I felt him freeze. The man who hunted my kind for a living stood still, his hand anchored to my face. For a long, silent minute, the only sound was the wind rattling the windowpanes.

"I'm not going anywhere," he whispered. His voice was so raspy I barely recognized it.

He shifted, lying down on his side and pulling me—duvet and all—into the iron circle of his arms. "Sleep."

He rested a heavy hand on my back, patting me with a slow, clumsy rhythm. His body temperature was a steady drain, siphoning the fever from my marrow. I curled into him, my nose pressed against the cold skin of his chest, listening to the click-tick of the machine behind his ribs.

A few minutes later, the edge of the overload finally faded, leaving me exhausted and hollow.

I shifted in my sleep, my body seeking the coldest patches of his skin. My leg hooked over his waist, and my hand slid beneath the hem of his robe, searching for the glacial heat of his abdominal muscles.

I heard him suck in a sharp, pained breath. His entire body turned to granite beneath my touch.

"...Fuck."

He hissed the curse into the darkness. I was too far gone into the shadows of sleep to care about his dignity, or mine. I just held onto the ice, desperate to keep the fire away for one more night.