Page 9 of Bound to the Dreadlord

The torches waver, the flames bending as if drawn to the sound.

My magic, dormant within me, stirs.

I feel it.

The way my pulse slows, my breath deepens. The way my body reacts without my permission.

It is a spell, but it is not a spell.

It is her.

I should stop this.

I should silence her.

Instead, I let her continue.

She sings low, a melody that makes the firelight glow warmer, richer. It curls through the air like fingers dragging over silk, twisting into the very fabric of the distance between us.

My fingers twitch at my sides.

I am letting her do this to me.

That realization is what snaps the trance.

With a sharp exhale, I move—gripping her by the chin, tilting her face up so abruptly that her breath catches.

The song dies instantly, cut off in a jagged gasp.

A single beat of silence, and then?—

"What," I murmur, voice low, dangerous, "are you?"

Her pulse is a wild drum beneath my fingers.

"I don’t know," she whispers.

Lies.

Or truth.

I do not know which is worse.

My grip tightens ever so slightly, enough to make her lips part, enough to watch her throat bob as she swallows hard.

My body is thrumming with something dark and unfamiliar, something infuriating.

I am reacting to her.

That cannot be allowed.

Abruptly, I release her, standing so quickly that she flinches.

"Enough," I say, turning from her.

I stride toward the window, staring out at the endless sprawl of my territory beyond the blackened glass.

She is a distraction.

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