Page 116 of Bound to the Dreadlord

His voice is different now.

Rough. Unsteady.

Like he is fighting something.

Like he does not trust himself.

I should listen.

I should walk away.

But listening isn’t my strong suit.

"Are you afraid of me now?" I whisper.

His eyes flash.

Something dangerous stirs in them.

"Go inside, Sera." His voice is tight. Controlled. Too controlled.

I recognize it.

It is the same way he speaks when he is trying not to do something he might regret later.

I wonder, what happens when he does?

43

VEYLAN

The fire crackles low in the hearth, casting flickering gold against the rough-hewn walls of the mountain hideout. The cold wind howls outside, but inside, the warmth is suffocating. Not from the flames, but from her presence.

Sera moves like a phantom, lingering at the edge of my vision. I pretend not to watch her. Pretend not to notice the way she has changed—how she moves without hesitation now, how her steps no longer falter, how her shoulders no longer curl inward.

She is no longer afraid of me. That should be a victory. It isn’t.

The gap between us is unbearable. I have forced distance between us since that night in the ruins, since she held a blade to my throat. But she is everywhere. Even in my silence. Even in my breath.

I am restless.

I sit by the fire, sharpening a dagger with slow, methodical precision. Sparks catch along the blade’s edge, and I imagine sinking it into the throat of the next fool who comes for her.

Hazeran has found us. The message arrived on black wings.

A single piece of parchment. A warning. A promise. It does not matter. I will not let them take her.

Sera stands by the window, her profile outlined against the dark glass. Snow flurries beyond, but she is untouched by the cold. The tension in her body is like a blade unsheathed. She has not spoken since the raven arrived.

She is waiting. For me. For something.

She turns, and our gazes collide.

Neither of us look away.

“You’re avoiding me.” Her voice is quiet, but not uncertain. She has lost the fear of demanding answers from me.

I smirk. “That’s bold, little siren.”

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