Page 122 of Bonds of Pain
Then the bond shuts down abruptly, leaving me cold as we continue to stare at each other.
The king turns to me expectantly, and I force the traditional response past my lips.
“I, Maya Tantamount, accept this bond and pledge my loyalty,” I say, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. “Before these witnesses, I submit to the will of my Alpha.”
Logan’s expression doesn’t change, but I feel a flicker of something through the bond, a brief flash of emotion too complex to identify before it’s ruthlessly suppressed.
The king brings forth the ceremonial goblet, filled with wine mixed with drops of our blood, a symbolic mingling meant to represent our already-completed bond. Logan drinks first, his eyes never leaving mine as he passes the goblet to me.
I take it with hands that somehow remain steady, raising it to my lips with a silent prayer that whatever comes next, I’ll find the strength to endure it.
As the wine touches my lips, bitter and metallic with the taste of our mingled blood, I make a vow of my own. Not to Logan, not to the court watching with bated breath, but to myself.
Whatever game he’s playing, whatever revenge he has planned, I won’t break. I’ve survived everything they’ve thrown at me so far. I’ll survive this too.
Logan takes the empty goblet from my hands, passing it to Cillian before drawing me closer. The ballroom falls silent as he lifts my veil, his expression still that perfect, practiced mask of princely devotion.
“For appearances,” he whispers against my ear, his breath warm against my skin.
Then he kisses me, his lips gentle against mine in stark contrast to the violence I’ve been bracing for. The crowd erupts in applause, the sound distant and muffled as my mind races to understand what’s happening.
“Logan…” I start.
He stops me with a brush of his thumb along my lower lip. “Now you’re mine in every way that matters.”
Logan turns to the crowd, his practiced royal smile gleaming in the candlelight. “Please enjoy the celebration,” he announces with practiced charm. “But forgive us if we slip away early. I’m eager to have my bride to myself.”
The assembled aristocrats titter with knowing laughter as they raise their glasses. Logan’s hand settles possessively at my waist, his touch light but unmistakably controlling as he guides me back down the aisle.
Before I can process what’s happening, he sweeps me into his arms, cradling me against his chest as if I weigh nothing. The crowd erupts in cheers and whistles as he carries me out of the ballroom, my elaborate dress trailing behind us like a waterfall of silk and lace. I glance back at the other men as they fall into step behind us. Cillian’s face is tight with concern, Ares and Poe have unreadable expressions.
I’m trembling. I can’t help it. My body betrays my fear even as I force my face to remain composed, a serene smile plastered across my lips for the benefit of any watching courtiers. Logan notices, his grip tightening almost imperceptibly as we ascend the grand staircase.
“You’re trembling,” he observes, his voice neutral, giving away nothing of what might be going through his mind.
I don’t respond. What could I possibly say? That I’m terrified of what he’ll do once we’re alone? That I regret sending that video, or that I don’t regret it at all? My thoughts are a tangled mess, and I can’t find words that won’t make this worse.
By the time we reach the top of the stairs, the sounds of the celebration have faded to a distant murmur. Logan’s steps don’t falter as he carries me down the corridor toward our suite. With each step, my heart beats faster, my mind racing with possible scenarios for what awaits me.
I distantly wonder if he plans to throw me over the railing, to watch me fall and break on the marble floor below. It would be easy to claim an accident—the distraught bride, overcome with emotion, leaning too far over the balustrade. A tragedy, not a murder.
But he doesn’t pause at any of the railings, instead moving steadily toward our apartment. Perhaps he prefers privacy for whatever he has planned. The thought sends a fresh wave of terror through me.
By the time we reach the suite, a cold sort of calm has settled over me. If he’s going to kill me, at least I’ll be free of this gilded cage. If he plans some other punishment, I’ll endure it as I’ve endured everything else.
Logan pauses at the foot of the rickety stairs leading down to the basement. My heart nearly stops as I realize where he’s taking me. Back to the room where this all began, where my heat and our forced bond first took shape. I can see the remnants of my nest still piled in the corner, untouched since that fateful night.
Logan sets me down carefully, his hands lingering at my waist to steady me. I don’t look at him, my eyes fixed on what remains of the nest I made during my drugged heat. The sight of it brings back memories I’ve tried desperately to suppress—the confusion, the need, the violation of it all.
But as I turn, my attention is immediately drawn to something else. A high table fitted with leather restraints is positioned in the center of the room. Medical-grade straps designed to immobilize, to render the subject helpless.
Logan follows my gaze, watching my reaction with clinical detachment. Then, before I can protest, he abruptly grabs my arm and drags me toward it.
I don’t fight him. What would be the point? His strength far exceeds mine, and escape is impossible with his pack members blocking the only exit. So, I allow him to guide me to the table, my body numb with acceptance as he lifts me onto it.
The leather is cool against my skin as he methodically secures the restraints around my wrists and ankles. Each click ofa buckle sounds like a death knell in the quiet room. When he finishes, I lie spread-eagle on the table, completely at his mercy.
Logan steps back, surveying his work with an unreadable expression. Then he reaches into his jacket and pulls out a knife—a wicked, gleaming blade that catches the light as he holds it up.
