Page 45 of Bound to the Dreadlord

The way she lingers a second too long.

The way her pulse stutters against my arm.

The way her breath hitches when she realizes how close we are.

I watch her.

I watch the war flicker behind those oceanic blue eyes, the one she does not realize she has already lost.

She dabs the cloth along my wound, but she is the one who is unraveling.

For her. For me.

For whatever this is becoming.

But I will not stop her.

19

SERA

The wound at his side is no longer bleeding.

My fingers hover over it, damp cloth smeared with crimson as I finish the last careful strokes, wiping away what remains.

I should be relieved.

Instead, I feel his gaze, heavy, unrelenting, dissecting me in a way that leaves me raw beneath his scrutiny.

Veylan does not speak.

He does not stop me, nor does he move away.

Every motion is a study.

Each breath measured, as though he is waiting.

For me to crack.

For me to slip up.

For me to sing again.

But I won’t.

I refuse.

The assassins are dead. The chamber reeks of blood and ruin, yet the true danger has settled between us, thick, unseen.

My voice.

The power that should not exist.

The power I can no longer deny.

I press the cloth into the water basin, watching the stain spiral out, dissolving into the blackened liquid. The task is small, insignificant, yet it gives my hands something to do.

"Where did you learn that?"

---