Page 18 of Bonds of Pain
I push myself up on my elbows, listening for any sound from the adjoining bedroom. Nothing but silence greets me.
“Hello?” I whisper, not really wanting an answer.
Relief washes over me when Logan doesn’t come barging in.
Replaced by immediate disappointment when neither does Cillian.
I feel a flash of hurt that he was so desperate to get away that he didn’t bother to wake me, but force the feeling aside. I can’t exactly blame him for being annoyed that I snuck into his room in the middle of the night. It’s a wonder that he let me stay here at all and didn’t order me back to Logan’s bed.
The sheets still smell like him, that faint floral scent I don’t have a name for that reminds me of baby powder and springtime flowers that I could almost imagine is just strong detergent left on freshly-washed laundry. The urge to burrow underneath a mound of blankets and pillows is what forces me up and out of the bed.
I can’t let this bond play anymore tricks on my mind.
I roll over, stretching my limbs like a cat, when something catches my eye. A small package sits on the pillow beside me, wrapped in simple brown paper tied with twine. No note, no explanation. I don’t need one. I know instantly it’s from Logan.
My fingers hover over the package, reluctant to touch it. This is his acknowledgment, his response to finding me in Cillian’s bed last night. Not a confrontation, but a gift. Somehow, that feels more dangerous.
A shiver runs down my spine, premonition or dread, I can’t tell which. Whatever’s inside this package, it represents Logan’s reaction to my choice, to my small rebellion.
“Damn him,” I mutter, finally picking up the package. It’s light, barely weighing anything at all. I shake it gently, hearing nothing inside.
I tug at the twine, unraveling the neat bow and letting the paper fall open. Inside lies a delicate silver chain with a small pendant, the Corellian family crest cradled in a crescent. The craftsmanship is exquisite, the silver catching the morning light filtering through the curtains. Five small diamonds are set into the crescent’s curve, glittering like stars.
Claiming gifts are so common that they’re practically expected. Jewelry is often the default, ranging from modest to the most ostentatious displays of wealth.
“What game are you playing now?” I whisper, running my finger over the smooth metal. The pendant is small and subtle, not gaudy and dripping with gems like typical royal claiming gifts. Much closer to what I’d choose for myself, if given the choice.
I drop the necklace back onto the paper as if it burned my fingers. Logan doesn’t do thoughtful. This is manipulation, another way to bind me to him. To demonstrate ownership.
My gaze drifts to the closed door leading to Logan’s bedroom. Is he out there waiting, waiting to see if I emerge wearing his gift? Or is he so confident that it doesn’t even occur to him to question whether I’ll wear it.
The bond between us pulses too distantly to give me any answers. It’s the weaker connection, not like what I feel with Cillian, but it’s there. Unwanted and unavoidable.
I force myself out of bed, my bare feet hitting the cold floor. Cillian’s room is even more obviously his own in the daylight. Though everything is neatly-arranged and ordered, personal touches fill the space. Not quite cluttered, but as if the small space has to contain everything he has ever owned. Maybe it does.
I trace my finger along the edge of the dresser that doesn’t have even a single speck of dust on it. My gaze falls to a framed photograph, the only one on display.
Younger versions of Logan and Cillian kneel in a muddy trench. They’re dressed in military fatigues, each with an arm wrapped around the other’s shoulder as they grimace into the camera.
It’s a stark reminder that they’ve known each other for almost as long as I’ve been alive. Maybe longer.
I won’t have an easy job of coming between them. That might not even be impossible.
I pick up the necklace again, weighing it in my palm. My overwhelming urge is to drop it in the trash, but something stops me. A political instinct, maybe. Or just the knowledge that I need to choose my battles carefully if I want to win this war.
So I clasp it around my neck, adjusting the length so the silver pendant nestles against my chest, metal cool against my bare skin. I don’t need to look in a mirror to know that the mark of House Corellian will be a focal point of anything I choose to wear, marking me as property.
I’m going to wear it anyway.
Not as submission, I tell myself.
But strategy.
My fingers absently trace the silver pendant at my neck as I shuffle down the hallway toward the dining room. The metal bounces against my chest, making me think of a pet collar.
All I’m missing is a leash.
My growling stomach is the only thing that keeps me from immediately hiding out under Cillian’s bed. I’ve barely eaten anything since my heat ended. At least a full day now.
