Page 34 of Bound to the Dreadlord

As if he enjoys the way I watch him now—not just out of fear, but out of something else.

Something that unsettles us both.

He does not press further.

Instead, he steps back, settles into the chair by the fire, his long fingers steepled beneath his chin.

He is still watching me.

I hate it.

I pretend to sleep.

Hours pass, the fire grows dull, the warmth of the hearth retreating into something colder.

Veylan does not move.

But I feel him.

Always.

I shift, pressing deeper into the sheets, forcing my breathing to slow, to even out.

Yet, the moment my mind drifts toward the haze of exhaustion, something happens.

Something I do not expect.

A weight.

A presence.

Heat, heavy and suffocating, pressing against my back.

He is holding me.

I stiffen, breath catching at the solid form wrapped around mine, the strength of his arm anchoring me against him.

What is he doing?

What does he think he’s doing?

The world narrows, my pulse slamming against my chest, the slow, steady inhale of his breath stirring against the back of my neck.

This is not a mistake.

He is not sleepwalking.

He is not unaware.

Veylan does not do anything by accident.

He is holding me.

Like a man keeping something from slipping through his grasp.

My stomach tightens into knots. My fingers curl into the sheets, and his arm a brand against my skin.

I need to get out of this.

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