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    Summary

    “You don’t know what you’re asking for, do you,” Damian asks lowly. “If you want pain, absolution—the penance halls could—”

    “I don’t want approval from the church,” Tardif growls. “They aren’t the ones I’m seeking anything from.”

    Damian’s jaw clicks with how sharply he snaps it shut.

    “Tardif. Do you understand that you are asking for something dangerous.”

    “I know,” he swallows around the words, tries to cast his gaze to Damian’s hip only for him to grab Tardif’s jaw and force him to meet his eyes. “I don’t care about their opinion of me. I don’t care how the Light sees me. But.”

    The words feel raw. A deeply private admission that he’s kept buried for months—from Damian, from himself.

    “I trust you. And, what’s worse, I care what you think of me.”

    the hag witch takes her toll on an already fraying tardif

    Language:
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