Page 33 of Bound to the Dreadlord

Instead, he spared me.

He touched me.

I can still feel the echo of his grip, the way his fingers curled around my chin, tilting my face toward his, studying me as if searching for something he couldn't name.

The way he washed me.

That should have felt like a mercy. But there was nothing merciful about it.

The cloth dragged over my skin, slow, unyielding, stripping away the blood that wasn’t mine, while his gaze lingered, watching every stroke as though claiming every inch of what he had chosen to keep.

It wasn't gentle.

It wasn’t cruel, either.

It was something else.

Something worse.

My pulse stirs at the memory, something dark slithering through my veins.

Veylan moves across the room, a shadow among shadows. He removes his armor piece by piece, the leather straps coming undone, the obsidian plates discarded onto the floor in slow, deliberate motions. The only sound is the soft rustle of fabric, the subtle shift of his body.

I watch.

I have to.

He is a creature of unpredictability, a force that does not move unless he wills it, and I cannot afford to be caught unaware.

This is what survival means now.

Watching. Learning.

He notices.

Of course, he does.

Veylan turns, silver eyes gleaming through the dim glow of the embers, locking onto me like a predator catching movement in the dark.

I can’t look away.

Something flickers in his expression—not quite amusement, not quite irritation.

Something in between.

Something that makes my skin prickle.

"Still awake, little siren?" His voice is quiet, smooth, but there’s an edge beneath it.

I don’t answer.

The name drips from his tongue like a taunt, though I doubt he even realizes its accuracy.

Little siren.

Something deep inside me stirs.

His lips twitch at my silence, as if he enjoys it.

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