Page 50 of Burned to Obey

When we reach my room, I pause, hand on the latch. The guard stands quietly, awaiting confirmation. I force a small smile. “Thank you. Good night.”

He nods. “Good night, quartermaster.” Then he turns to stand post a short distance away.

I duck inside, bolting the door. My quarters remain as I left them: a straw mattress, a rough table, the single lantern half-filled with oil. Letting out a weary sigh, I light the lantern, filling the space with a gentle glow. My reflection in the metal mirror shows wide eyes, cheeks still flushed. I push hair off my forehead, annoyed at how everything stirs me.

Sinking onto the bed, I cover my face with my palms. The day had felt ordinary until that brief, jarring moment in the courtyard. I replay it, each second scorching my thoughts. My fingers on his horn, the jolt in both of us. He almost kissed me. My heart clenches, a tremor of longing washing through me again. I recall the stories of minotaur horns—an extremely sensitive spot, taboo to touch uninvited. I basically broke all boundaries. And yet, for an instant, he wanted it. Or I believe he did. He looked at me like I was a miracle and a danger all at once.

A swirl of guilt unfurls. He’s bound to me by brand, I’m bound to him by survival. It’s not fair to either of us to indulge in something that could complicate everything. Thakur and the Senate stand ready to swoop in, plus I carry a secret about possible Nullborn heritage. If that truth surfaces, I’ll be a pawn to the highest bidder. Letting my guard down with Saru could lead to heartbreak on every side.

I roll onto my side, ignoring the twinge in my ribs. Sleep might help, but I doubt it comes easily. My mind churns with conflicting desires. I see Saru’s fierce expression, the quietstrength he radiates, how he refused to give me up to Thakur. He’s an anchor in the storm that is the Bastion. But do I risk letting that anchor pull me under?

Squeezing my eyes shut, I breathe slowly, trying to settle. My body remains tense, though eventually, exhaustion drags me into uneasy dreams. I dream of the courtyard, except this time, the entire fortress watches us from the pillars, mocking or cheering, I can’t tell. I reach for Saru’s horn, and he leans closer—until Thakur’s laughter splits the air like a blade. Fire rips across the mark on my arm. I jolt awake, sweat slicking my spine.

Night deepens outside, the corridor silent. I remain curled on the bed, heart racing. A wave of loneliness hits me. I recall how I used to handle fear in the dark elf forges—shut down my emotions, rely on no one. But the Bastion’s forging something new in me. My vulnerabilities run deeper now, sharpened by the possibility that I might genuinely… want him. The thought terrifies me as much as stepping onto a battlefield without armor.

I brush trembling fingers over the brand, the scab mostly healed. I can’t keep lying to myself. I want him, physically and beyond. The memory of that near-kiss ignites a throbbing ache in my chest, a mix of longing and alarm. Because once I let that guard down, there’s no going back to the safe barrier of hostility. We’ll be entangled in ways neither of us can easily escape. And with the Senate prowling, any vulnerability could be a fatal flaw.

Eventually, I drift again into a shallow doze, mind spinning. Dawn finds me just as weary, but I force myself up. Another day, more chores, and more political maneuvers. I vow to keep distance from Saru, or at least pretend that close call never happened. It’s the only way to keep my head above water. Yet deep down, an ember of yearning remains, stirring every time I think of his calm gaze or the electric jolt of his touch.

I wonder if he feels the same pull. He fled so abruptly, so maybe he’s just as rattled. The notion both comforts and unnerves me. Still, I won’t chase him for answers. Let him decide if we address it or pretend it never happened. Maybe ignoring the spark is best. Maybe. But my heart refuses to settle on that lie.

Stretching out my sore arms, I dress, ignoring the lingering bruises. The brand stands out as a silent testament to forced survival, an anchor that might pull me deeper. I sigh, tying my hair back, preparing for the day. No matter what roils inside me, the Bastion demands my attention. Yet each step I take echoes with the memory of a moment we almost gave in to something far more powerful than duty. And the realization that I might crave that moment again, even if it threatens every wall I built to keep me safe.

14

SARU

Midnight settles over the Bastion with a hush so complete that every echo of distant footsteps seems magnified. I sit at the desk in my private quarters, a single lantern casting flickering light across the scattered parchments. Each missive details tensions with the Senate, supply concerns, or the watchful eyes of Thakur’s cronies. My horns ache from the day’s turbulence, the confrontation in the courtyard swirling in my thoughts. Hours ago, I fled from Naeva the moment her hand brushed my horn. My composure fractured so sharply that I hardly recognize myself.

I stand to pace the small chamber, chest armor discarded by the bed. A swirl of complicated emotions churn inside me: guilt, desire, the sense that we’ve crossed a threshold we can’t return from. That silent moment with her hand on my horn—an intimate minotaur gesture—sparked a wild rush of longing I can’t deny. That sigil scorched into her flesh was meant to be a shield, not a doorway. But day by day, our bond entwines tighter—something far more complex than mere obligation.

A soft knock at the door halts my pacing. My heart jolts. No guard would knock so quietly. A prisoner would rarely dareapproach unbidden. I step forward, swallowing tension. “Enter,” I say, voice low.

The door eases open, revealing Naeva in the dim corridor. She stands with her arms tense at her sides, hair partially undone around her shoulders. One of my loyal guards lingers behind her, uncertain. My breath stills at the sight of her, shadowed in lantern glow. She glances at the guard, then back at me.

“Let her in,” I instruct the guard. My voice sounds more gruff than intended. He nods and steps away, leaving us alone. She slips inside, closing the door behind her with a soft click.

Silence weighs between us, thick with the unspoken tension that’s hounded me since we nearly collided in that courtyard. The lantern’s faint glow catches the brand on her forearm, a silent reminder of the line we both straddle—forced bond, or something forging deeper. She swallows, eyes flicking around my room with uneasy curiosity.

At last, she steps closer, voice barely above a whisper. “You ran off earlier.” Her tone carries no accusation, but pain lingers beneath it. “I wanted… to check.”

My chest tightens. “I lost control,” I admit, bracing my hands behind my back. “Touching a minotaur’s horn is… intensely personal. I didn’t expect?—”

She nods, folding her arms. “I know. I didn’t mean to do it. It just… happened.” Her gaze drops to the floor. “I’m sorry if it offended you.”

A pang of regret knots in my gut. “I wasn’t offended. Just overwhelmed.”

She inches forward, each breath trembling. I can see her bruises are fading, but tension holds her shoulders rigid. We stand a scant few paces apart, the difference in our heights glaring. Her hair frames her face in waves that catch the lantern’s glow. The hush in the room throbs with unsaid words.

She exhales softly. “We can’t keep dancing around this. Something is changing between us.”

I nod, swallowing. “It is.”

She lifts her chin, courage flickering in her eyes. “I won’t pretend I hate you for the brand anymore. I… I can’t ignore everything else you’ve done—the times you saved me, taught me. Protected me. And I?—”

Her voice falters, but I sense the raw emotion brimming. My own breath hitches, horns tingling with every passing second. The faint bruise across her jaw reminds me how fragile she is, how mortal, and how fiercely I want to keep her safe. I step closer, muzzle nearly level with her forehead. She doesn’t back away.

Bathed in the soft glow of lantern light, we face each other, hearts thundering. She hesitates, then trails her fingers along the raised scar that curves down her arm. “I keep telling myself it’s a trap,” she whispers, “but it’s also kept me safe.” A brittle laugh slips out. “I don’t even know what I’m supposed to feel.”

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