Page 52 of Bound to the Dreadlord

But the words do not leave me because they are not just words.

They are a warning.

A part of me believes them.

21

VEYLAN

She is not here.

The chambers are silent. The space where she should be is empty. She should still be in the library.

My hands flex against the armrests of my chair, nails biting into the wood as I scan the room. The basin where she washed my wounds remains untouched. The chair she curls into when she thinks I’m not watching is still in place.

Nothing is disturbed.

Except for her absence.

A sharp exhale leaves me, slow, measured, controlled.

She is testing me.

I told myself that allowing her to roam the library was a demonstration of my power, a calculated leash that would remind her that no matter where she went, she would return.

She always returns.

But this feels different.

Something in the stillness hums wrong.

The second the thought forms, a flicker of something ugly, unwelcome coils in my gut.

I shove it down, forcing myself to lean back.

And she did.

Light, careful steps reaches my ears. She’s doing her best not to make a sound.

My patience is already gone.

By the time she steps inside, I am already standing. Waiting.

Her body stiffens when she sees me.

She hesitates.

That alone sparks something sharp in my gut.

She never hesitates.

Her face is shadowed beneath the dim candlelight, but her lips are pressed too tight. Her fingers tremble just slightly at her sides.

Something happened.

And she is trying to hide it from me.

The realization irritates me more than it should.

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