Page 73 of Bound to the Dreadlord

I feel it.

I know she does too.

But we do not speak of it.

Not tonight as the world outside still wants her dead.

I am not ready to let her go.

27

SERA

After escaping House Velkiron, Veylan brings me back to his chambers, but the space between us is charged, electric, like the calm before a storm. The rage that fueled his attack still lingers in the way he moves, in the way his eyes burn into mine, but it’s no longer directed at his enemies.

It’s entirely on me.

I expect punishment. Brutality.

Some cruel reminder that I am his possession, his to command and control. Instead, I find something far worse—hunger. A raw, primal need that radiates from him like heat from a forge, and it terrifies me because I feel it too.

There’s something feral in the way he gazes at me, his silver eyes glinting like a predator’s in the dim light. His hands are rough, calloused from years of wielding weapons, and they grip my wrist with a force that borders on painful as he pulls me closer.

His gaze burns into mine, daring me to defy him, to give him a reason to shatter whatever fragile restraint remains.

I fight to keep my breathing steady, to remind myself that I cannot afford to fall into whatever twisted game this is. But my body betrays me.

The memory of his touch, of the way his lips had crushed against mine before, lingers like a ghost beneath my skin, igniting a fire I desperately try to suppress.

“You disappeared,” Veylan murmurs, his voice low, dangerous, like the growl of a wolf circling its prey.

His fingers brush along the side of my throat, a silent reminder of what could have happened if he had been a second too late. “You think I wouldn’t take back what’s mine?”

I should be afraid.

I am. But not in the way I should be.

He is fire and steel, carved from war and cruelty, and yet when he touches me, I feel something else entirely—something that terrifies me more than his wrath. His grip tightens, and the air between us becomes a battlefield of wills, unspoken and electric.

I lift my chin, defiance flashing in my eyes. “I am not yours.”

A flicker of something unreadable flashes through his gaze—something dark, possessive, and hungry.

Then his lips are on mine, claiming, devouring. There is nothing soft about it. It is not gentle. It is not kind. It is a war, a desperate struggle for control that neither of us fully possesses.

His hands are rough, possessive, sliding down my body with a hunger that makes my breath hitch.

One hand tangles in my hair, pulling my head back to expose my throat, while the other grips my hip hard enough to leave bruises. His cock presses against me, hard and insistent, a blatant reminder of his dominance, his need.

But there is a moment—just a breath—where the fire shifts, where his grip falters, where something dangerously close to tenderness leaks through. It’s there in the way his thumbbrushes my jaw, in the way his lips linger for a heartbeat too long against mine.

It vanishes almost instantly, replaced by something fiercer, something that makes my pussy clench with a mix of fear and desire. His hand slips between my legs, fingers teasing the sensitive flesh through the fabric of my clothes, and I gasp, my body betraying me once again.

“You are mine,” he growls against my lips, his voice thick with need. “Every inch of you. Your defiance only makes me want to claim you harder.”

My mind screams at me to fight, to push him away, but my body arches into his touch, craving more. His fingers slip beneath my clothes, finding me wet and ready, and I hate myself for how easily he unravels me.

But I’ve seen it—that fleeting moment of something deeper, something neither of us dares to name. And I know, no matter how much Veylan denies it, this was never just about possession.

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