Nila twitched as I said it, her eyes flaring with knowledge from our past discussion on the matter.

Looking away, I said, “She was sentenced to burn at the stake at sunrise.”

Nila moaned, shaking her head in horror.

Bonnie Hawk muttered, “Now do you see why we hate you so?”

Rushing ahead, I finished, “One saving grace was she was granted a choice. The daughter was told she could prove her innocence or admit her guilt.” Moving toward Nila, I wound my fingers in her hair, cursing my heart for tripping as the black strands rippled around my knuckles. “What do you think she chose, Ms. Weaver?” I brushed my nose against her throat, doing my utmost to tame my cock from reacting to her delectable smell. “Fire or water…what would you choose?”

Nila shook harder, her eyes like black orbs of dread. She tried to speak, but a croak came out instead. Licking her lips, she tried again. “Innocence. I would take innocence.”

“So, you would prefer to drown by water than be purged by fire?”

Another tear trickled down her cheek. “Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

Bracing herself, Nila said loudly, “I would choose water.”

I nodded. “Exactly.

“And that’s what my ancestor chose as well.”

I WAS ABOUT to be drowned.

I was to repent for heinous lies, to prove my innocence from witchcraft that I didn’t practice, and perish the way so many innocent girls had done in the past.

In the 1400’s, the law system was run by the Church. And the Church had ultimate control. It didn’t matter that they sentenced a young girl to death. It didn’t matter that she was innocent. Even if she chose trial by water, she would still end up dead.

The proverb from those days came back to haunt me.

Ye innocent will float upon their demise while ye guilty will sink just like their dirty souls.

Both scenarios ended in death.

There was no justice—only a deranged mob looking for entertainment by heckling and ripping a young girl’s life apart.

Shaking my head, I tried to rid the images inside my brain.

Jethro vibrated before me, his back to his family, his eyes only for me.

Beneath the golden ice lurked a need for me to understand. To forgive him for what he was about to do.

How could he ask me that when I didn’t know if I would survive?

If you do go to your grave today, don’t condemn him any more than what he is.

Somehow, I’d gone from martyrdom to just being a martyr—still unable to hurt him—even while he hurt me.

I nodded—or I tried to nod—I was so stiff my body barely moved.

Jethro’s nostrils flared. He saw my acknowledgement, my permission to proceed.

You’re insane.

Maybe you are a witch.

You seem to believe you’re immortal and can’t be killed.

That might be true. In that moment, I wished it were true.

With his back straight and legs spread, Jethro asked the question I’d been waiting for. “Do you repent, Ms. Weaver? Do you take ownership of your family’s sins and agree to pay the debt?”

I almost collapsed I shook so hard. It was the exact same question Jethro made me answer before extracting the First Debt.

Before I replied, I had a question of my own. Looking directly at Bonnie Hawk, I asked, “When I first arrived, I was told I would be used callously and with no thought. I was told the firstborn son dictated my life and that there would be no rules on what he did with me.” My voice wobbled, but I forced myself to go on. “Yet, everything you do follows strict repetition. Re-creating the past over and over again. You’re bound by what happened as much as us. Surely you’re powerful enough to tear up such guidelines and find it in your hearts to let go.”

My hands balled as anger shot fierce and hot. “Let this madness end!”

Bonnie’s mouth parted half in amazement, half in joy.

Her hazel eyes twinkled as she leaned forward, pointing a knobbly finger in my direction. “Let’s get something straight, young lady. My grandson is bound, as you say, by records kept for hundreds of years. He has to follow each one perfectly. But the rest—anything outside of paying the debts—that is purely at his discretion.”

She cocked her chin, looking at Jethro.

He stood frozen.

“He is the one who decides if you’re to be kept apart or shared. He is the one who decides if you deserve leniency for obedience or punishment for insubordination.”

Her dry lips pulled back over cavity-riddled teeth. “There is something you don’t know, Nila Weaver. And normally I wouldn’t tell a guttersnipe like you what conversations go on within my family, but it should make you grateful to know. Do you want to know, child?”

The wind stole my hair, snapping it around me like black lightning. Standing in the pentacle seemed to summon powers I didn’t have—transferring ancient magic that should remain dead and buried. The back of my scalp prickled; I inched closer to the edge of the salt, needing to leave. “Yes. I want to know.”

Shooting a look at Jethro, I tried to imagine the conversations he had with the people he held most dear. Was there anyone he let himself be free with? Just his sister. I knew that from the way Jasmine spoke of him. He lived with a large family yet remained so alone.

Bonnie Weaver took a shallow breath. “Jethro came to me a few days after your arrival with a request to keep you to himself.”

“Grandmamma—” Jethro began.