Page 11 of A Cursed Bite (Bound to the Enduar #1)

VANN

H ours of moving, lifting, and manual work have made my body tired, but my mind is more alive than ever.

When I’d broken into the kitchens, I found one of the human men cleaning up—Luiz—who handed me a bottle of mead. It felt wrong to drink in front of a man still working, so I left, mead in hand, wandering home.

The lights in Arlet’s dwelling are off.

Good. She needs rest after what she’s been through. She better have gone to see Ulla.

Pushing open the door to my own house, I look around, seeing it as if for the first time. The inside of my house is simple, functional. A circular space with smooth stone walls, reinforced with the golden-toned enduar metal that lines much of the council district. No unnecessary decorations, no flourishes—just what I need.

I recognize the easels lining one wall, and the row of paints and brushes stored in baskets. But then I look at the large, sturdy wooden desk, which takes up one side of the room, a place for maps, reports, and the occasional untouched letter from Teo. Above it, shelves hold weapons and tools, a mix of old and new—blades honed from ancient obsidian, a hunting spear, a few small mechanical trinkets from the city's metal benders that I have yet to throw away. Above all of them rests my cleaver.

I’ve killed so many with that blade. It’s almost an extension of my person. My identity.

Across from the display, a stone hearth keeps the space warm, a low fire still smoldering from the morning. A single chair sits beside it, worn from use, angled just enough to watch the flames. A habit, more than anything.

My sleeping area is upstairs. It’s the most pleasant area to look at, draped with furs and woven blankets. The scent of the mountain lingers here, sharp and mineral-rich, mixed with the faint trace of the oils I use to clean my weapons.

Who the fuck was all this for?

I didn’t need so much space. I was happy in my old house.

My tail jerks to the side, slapping against the wall. I uncork the bottle, throwing my head back as I take a deep drink. The sweet, honeyed liquid burns, trailing fire down my throat, but I welcome it.

A little pain to remind myself that I am alive.

To live without a heart is to have every emotion cut in half—distant, muted, like sound underwater. Still there, but dulled.

I drop into one of the gold-trimmed chairs by the table I never requested, slamming the bottle down before pulling the scroll from my belt and letting it fall beside it.

Then I take another drink.

I stare at the damned parchment before finally, ripping the twine free and unrolling it.

The usual nonsense is there. Name. Pastimes. Preferred scents. Favorite meals.

Then I see the last line.

“Sexual preferences.”

Fuck.

I choke, nearly laughing at its absurdity. But my mind is already there, it has been since I picked up that stupid scroll in Arlet’s room.

“You know Arlet will be there,” Teo had said.

Arlet, with her unwavering dedication, friendliness and goodness. Arlet with her perfect, pink lips, wild red hair, and intriguing desires.

Arlet. The bronze-freckled woman with a soft body that fits perfectly in my arms.

She needs someone to care for her, to consume her. And then return the broken pieces of her soul, all while helping her smooth over the jagged edges.

It’s been so long since I’d been with Adra. No other woman had touched me since.

The heat lurks at the edges of my soul, waiting for an outlet. And suddenly, it floods my system.

A rush of blood passes over my skin—hot, sharp, demanding.

The sensation shoots straight to my groin, tightening into something dark and insistent.

Fuck. It’s potent.

I stand abruptly, and the stiffness in my pants is uncomfortable. I need to cool off. To relax. I could stay here—take care of this like I have before.

Or I could leave.

Even half-drunk, I know the answer.

I burst out of my house, gulping in the cool cavern air. The deeper I walk into the city, the less suffocated I feel and the more the heat recedes.

I let out a few musical notes when I reach the tunnels at the end of the residential section. The crystals around me, quartz, amethyst, and citrine sing back. They hum in my bones, trying to soothe me.

Tunnel six was dedicated to public pools. They are often occupied, even at night, but a new room just opened, one crafted by the ocean-risen. It was usually empty past midnight.

They call it a salt room, whatever the hell that means.

I head toward it, wondering if salt crystals will sing as prettily as quartz.

Each step drags me away from the thoughts I don’t want and the chill in my chest that leads to pain the following day.

Arlet didn’t need me thinking about her constantly. She has always been predisposed to fight twice as hard against me when I’m the one bringing up the issue.

I should have left the matter of the nightgown alone.

But I can’t.

Not when I found her standing over the severed leg of an aradhlum, her hands shaking, her expression blank—like she wasn’t even inside her own body. Not when she barely remembers a full day. Not when Daniel was seen lurking near her home, and now he’s gone.

The pieces don’t fit together cleanly, and it’s driving me mad.

And if I don’t figure out what is going on soon, I’m afraid I’ll find her in the same position again—except next time, she won’t be the one left standing.

Dragging my hand across my face, I turn down a new path and find the entrance, and I untie the tunic around my shoulders. The room is warm, glowing with the soft orange hue of salt crystals, and I didn’t want to get overheated. For some reason, they insisted on a door. I push it open, stepping inside… and stop dead.

A woman’s form stretches across one of the slabs, entirely unclothed.

Flame-red hair cascades over smooth shoulders, curling over freckled skin. She’s bathed in the soft amber light, as if sculpted from the same mineral around her.

A single arm drapes over her eyes, shielding her from the glow. She doesn’t stir.

I go rigid.

Then, a soft snore escapes her lips.

For a moment, I can’t breathe. Can’t think. The rush of blood, of heat, of want comes like a wave, knocking the air from my lungs.

She is delicate in a way that is entirely different from what I have ever known.

My mouth parts, my chest tightens, and I tear my gaze away, cursing myself.

What is she doing here, alone? Where are her clothes?!

Gods, this is not helping. She’s putting herself in danger, I swear.

I should wake her up before anyone else comes in .

Now.

I clear my throat, making my voice louder, rougher than necessary, and continue to avoid looking right at her.

"What in the name of my gods’ stony feet are you doing here, disrobed?" I growl.

The reaction is instant.

Arlet bolts upright, her unbound hair spilling over her bare back, eyes wide, startled.

For a split second, I don’t recognize her.

Her lips are parted, her face unguarded, her pupils blown wide—so wide they swallow the brown of her irises.

"Turn around!" she screeches.

I whirl immediately, clenching my jaw.

"How long have you been standing there?" she demands, her voice still edged with sleep.

I swallow, the image of smooth, bare skin flashing through my mind. I let it pass, knowing it’s wrong to keep such things near my thoughts.

I am good at ignoring memories. It’s how I’ve survived.

"Hardly a few seconds," I respond, my voice betraying the lack of air in my lungs. “But, again, why are you here?”

I hear movement behind me, fabric rustling as she redresses.

“I went to see Ulla after work, but she was gone. I waited for an hour, but she didn’t return. One of her assistants checked me quickly, then they told me to come here. They said that being nude would help the salt crystals clear out the cloud of negative energy surrounding me," she mutters, quieter now. “No one ever comes at this hour—I thought I was safe.”

Then, after a pause.

"Did you look?"

Her voice is small, unsure.

I exhale slowly, jaw tight.

"No."

Another moment of silence. Then, softer—"You hesitated."

Damn it all .

I scrub a hand over my face, willing my body to calm the hell down.

"You startled me," I admit. That much is true.

She sighs. The tension in the air shifts, but even then, I don’t look directly at her.

“Vann,” she nudges me with her voice.

“I didn’t look, Firelocks.”

What good would come of telling her that I had?

I’ve kept her at arm’s length, despite every person in my circle constantly throwing us together.

She seems pleased. Arlet lets out a shaky breath, the soft rustle of fabric filling the room as she ties the cloth around herself. It’s an absurd sound, far too erotic for what’s actually happening. My muscles lock, every part of me willing this torture to end.

"How long does it take to tie a thin strip of cloth around your waist?" I grit out.

She makes an irritated noise, as if I’m the problem here.

I push further. "All decent?"

“Yes,” she hisses.

I turn.

The heat in the salt room is heavy. It’s not unbearable, but sweat beads at my brow, slipping down the back of my neck.

And Arlet is glaring at me like she’s ready to set me on fire.

“What?” I grunt out.

“I didn’t expect to see you tonight. And I just remembered how angry I am at you.”

“Why? Because of this?”

“Did you forget you broke into my house?” she snaps, arms crossed tight over her chest.

I let out a slow breath. "I wasn’t trying?—"

"I don’t care," she cuts in, stepping closer. The flush on her cheeks isn’t just from the heat now—her temper burns. “I don’t like getting angry. But you invaded my house. My nightgown was in my room! With my soiled clothes. You—” Her voice catches, her fingers shifting at her sides before she clenches them into fists. “That is my home, Vann. ”

Something in my chest pulls tight. I didn’t want to violate her space. I just—I just needed to make sure she was safe.

That’s the part I can’t say. The part I don’t even know how to put into words.

Guilt churns in my gut, twisting like a blade. I exhale sharply, rolling my shoulders, trying to shove it aside—but it sticks.

“I’m sorry,” I say, the words gruff, unpracticed.

Arlet blinks, clearly startled.

Good. Maybe that’ll be enough.

But then I make the mistake of looking past her, to the polished marble slab where she had been lying, and my attention snags on something that shouldn’t be here.

A Mating Journey scroll. The same damned kind that’s sitting on my table at home.

I move before I think, pushing past her, reaching down to grab the parchment just as she lunges for it.

"Why are you going through my things again ?" she snaps. “I’m leaving if you don’t stop.”

“Come now, this is not so personal. I was given the same one. You can read it if you’d like,” I say, smiling to myself as I unroll the stone paper. She would find nothing on my scroll, but I might be able to get her to have a drink with me. We could talk about what was happening.

Then, I consider she might be looking for another partner. So soon? With everything else?

“You are… going tomorrow?” she asks.

“They keep asking me to,” I return.

“Because you are unmated?”

“I am alone,” I deflect. I flick the scroll back toward her, my patience thinning. “You know, the Mating Journey is like having your heart pulled out through your nostrils.”

“I’m already familiar with the sensation.”Arlet snatches the scroll from my grip, eyes flashing. “And what were you doing here again?”

"I could ask you the same thing."

Now it’s her turn to brush past me, walking toward the glowing salt walls and trailing her fingers along the delicate mineral bands.

“I already told you. But I guess I came here to relax. Specifically at midnight to avoid… annoyances."

The light gilds her skin, making her glow as she looks back at me. Her unbound hair is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. It looks so soft.

I like that I see it so often, despite having no right.

Smirking, I ask, "Am I an annoyance?"

"Yes." She doesn’t even hesitate.

Well, I suppose it is warranted. I’ve been an ass the past two days. But I didn’t always want to be one, especially not to her.

I step toward her, closing the space between us. "You wound me."

Reaching out, I tap the top of her scroll, letting my fingers land dangerously close to hers. There’s a lot I want to ask her. I want to know about Daniel, if she remembers anything from the night before, why she continues to work even though she’s not well.

But instead I say, "Now tell me—are you really planning to go to the festival tomorrow?"

She turns fully, only realizing just how close I am when she looks up.

"Of… course I am," she says, eyes flicking—too quickly—to my bare shoulders.

"Why?"

The Mating Journey is pageantry. A performance. One even worse than the mockery I was forced into during the Queen’s Festival months ago.

In the old enduar customs, the Mating Journey was held every year. Some returned year after year. Some never stopped searching.

I only went once.

For me, it had been hours of self-reflection and physical preparation wasted. Even thinking about it now has me irritated with the way I had to shape myself into something palatable, something a mate might want. I spent so much time crafting that version of myself, forcing my rough edges into something smoother.

I hated myself for it. But I hated myself even more when it didn’t work.

Why would she subject herself to that? She is fine as she is.

"Enough," she snaps, frustration creeping into her tone. "You've had your fun—barging in here while I was in an embarrassing position. I'm tired. Definitely not feeling up to your mockery."

But her words lack their usual sharpness.

My brows pull together. I want to push. I study the dozens of shades of red in her hair, making note of the warm and cool tones—the exact colors I would need if I were to paint it.

I shouldn’t be thinking about that.

"I had no intention of mocking you," I say softly.

Her eyes widen, just slightly.

Her lips part.

"Oh."

She did make me angry from time to time, but the edge I sported around her was something else. Something unsure of how to be… friendly. Upon meeting, she didn’t like my commanding tone, but she also didn’t even try to understand my position as the king’s advisor. From there, the sourness between us had been a long string of my inept ability to speak my mind. That caused growing resentment.

I knew it was happening. I just didn’t know how to stop it.

Instead of fumbling this moment, I tap the top of the scroll again.

"So why?" My voice is calm, but there’s an edge beneath it. "Why parade yourself around to find a partner? Surely there's enough interest elsewhere."

Everyone loves Arlet. Even if not romantically. When she’d been with Joso, I hadn’t liked it, but he was far from the only one gazing upon her with stars in their eyes. It wasn’t her fault she picked someone as useful as a sword with no edge.

As my thoughts unfurl something dark and dangerous twists in my gut. I didn’t like talking about potential suitors.

She pauses, fingers playing with the tie around her waist. The one that holds the thin, barely-there fabric to her skin.

Stop. Thinking.

"You know how cruel that statement is, Vann. You saw what happened with Joso. He—I wasn’t what he wanted. It’s not the first time it’s happened.”

A sharp, icy stillness spreads through me. First, knowing I’ve said the wrong thing again, but then I’m angry at Joso. I should have done more than punch him.

"Call me foolish, but I want to be loved. Just once." Her voice is quiet, raw. A delicate silver line appears along her bottom lashes. "It could be easy to find someone at the festival. So many people. So many options."

Every part of me pauses.

Too many options.

Her words sting against the cold, empty space where my heart should be. I wonder, if I actually had one, would this feel worse?

"Hmm.”

She looks away, brushing her fingers over the scroll.

“Estela is making me go,” she admits. “And I’ve just been lugging this around all day."

I bark out a laugh.

“Yes. They are insistent we all go.”

Her eyes brighten, her mouth quirking in amusement.

“So you are joining me?”

I think about finding her earlier. The blood on her nightgown. That small spark of joy tamps down any warmth I might have felt.

"Aren't you afraid they'll find out your secret?" I murmur. She was so set on not letting anyone know what happened in front of her house. How will she even be able to tell someone she’s in danger?

Her expression twists, true hurt flashing in her eyes.

Damn. Another misstep. Another crack in the fragile ground between us. There must be a way to fix this—to untangle the threads before they fray beyond repair.

I need to show her I mean well.

"How dare you?—"

"It might be best if you tell me exactly what you're looking for in a husband. I could be of help… especially with the matching system." I grin, broad and sharp.

“Maldito idiota,” she breathes. An insult in her tongue. “You don’t want to help me and I don’t want to be mocked.” She tucks the scroll against her chest and steps back, clearly moving to leave.

The warmth vanishes, and something in my belly lurches .

Before I can think better of it, I grab her hand.

She stiffens, her fingers caught in mine, the heat of her palm grounding me in place.

"I know I don’t say things the right way," I murmur, twining my fingers with hers. "I know I keep making mistakes."

She looks down at our hands, pulling away again, but instead it changes the position of our limbs and our small fingers interlock—hers, the ones that had been stitched back on. Mine, the ones I lost half of in the war.

My gut clenches.

I squeeze lightly, almost as if I were still holding her hand to create a proper vow. "But I want to do better. I will do better at being kind, so you know we can be friends. That’s a promise."

Arlet’s eyes flick to mine, searching.

I don’t know if she believes me. But she doesn’t pull away.

"Help me?"

I nod.

"Why?" Her voice is unsteady. "You keep doing that—you keep helping me. But you also seem to hate me."

“Maybe I don’t want you wandering around the city with a frown." I purse my lips. “So, what do you say? Will you let me help?”

She bites her lip. Her small finger twitches.

“Fine. But I will leave if you’re rude again,” she says.

I grin.

"What male friends do you have?" I ask after a moment.

She pauses, unsure.

"I am acquainted with many, but friends with few. I’ve always felt more at ease around women. Estela has been my primary confidant for as long as I can remember."

I knew that. While I wouldn’t say she avoids men, she is… different in their presence.

"So, what are you looking for?" I press.

She inhales slowly, her breath rising against the silence between us.

"I want to make someone happy. I want to have someone to create a home with." A pause. "I want to give someone children. "

Her words exist for someone else. To give. To be a part of another’s story.

Didn’t she realized she deserves her own?

"It sounds like you want to make someone incredibly happy," I murmur.

She nods, the sadness retreating.

"Yes,” then she bites her lip. “I’m sorry. I think I’ve misjudged you because I didn’t expect you, of all people, to understand that.”

But maybe I do.

I bite my lips together. A thousand blunt-edged responses dance through my thoughts, sharp and unrelenting, but I hold them back. It would be a lonely evening if she left.

And while she’s here, I can look after her.

"So how would you phrase this…?" she trails off.

“Yes?”

"I want to say that I want someone who will stand beside me, not just expect me to follow."

I smirk. “So… 'I seek a man who won’t mistake me for a decoration'?"

Arlet rolls her eyes. "That sounds combative."

"Good. It’ll weed out the weak ones,” I grin up at her.

She bites her lip.

“Very well.” Then she produces a piece of charcoal from her robe pocket and scribbles down notes.

“All right. Now, there will be men who only see my status. How do I phrase something that makes it clear I won’t tolerate that?" She looks up at me and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.

I think for a minute.

“Try 'I am not a stepping stone. Walk over me, and you’ll fall off a cliff.'”

Arlet laughs and the sound is sweet. It’s one of the only times she’s ever laughed at something I’ve said. "You enjoy this, don’t you?"

"I enjoy watching you consider hurting me,” I say without thinking, my ears eager to be graced with another laugh.

She merely smiles. Then writes again. After, she taps her lips .

“Anything else?” I ask, thinking about the list of words.

One prompt in particular, sexual preferences , returns to my thoughts.

I won’t ask about that.

Shouldn’t ask about that.

I suck in a sharp breath, and she speaks, graciously breaking me out of my buzzed thoughts.

“You’ll laugh at the next one,” she says.

Straightening, I shake my head. “I will not.”

She purses her lips.

“I want children. As many as I can have. But I—” she breaks off. Her face turns away, as if she were hiding something. She clears her throat. “I—I don’t want someone to just use me for that."

Like Arion. Fucking prick.

Her words both stun me and don’t. I could picture her as a mother as easily as I can remember her scooping up children and playing childish games. The shock comes when I think of her with a rounded belly.

That sight… I swallow.

"Then don’t. Say you want a partner in building a home, that you’re not just a womb to fill."

"That’s blunt,” she says quietly.

I step closer to her, hand itching to reach out and touch her clothing. “You want a fool who can’t handle blunt? Or do you want someone who knows exactly what you mean?"

A slow smile spreads over her face, and then she writes.

When she looks at me, I feel a little dizzy.

“You know,” she starts, “I think this is the first time we’ve ever spoken without fighting.”

“No it isn’t,” I retort.

She opens her mouth, and I bite back a smile. Then, realizing my joke, she laughs again.

I luxuriate in the sound. It washes over me like warm water.

We talk for another hour before she thanks me and says she would like to go to bed.

I oblige her request, feeling… light. Lighter than I have in a while. No sharp, emotional spikes to ruin the night. No lingering tension waiting to snap.

After so much talking, the walk back is quiet, and my mind circles around things I don’t want to name.

She leaves first, disappearing into her home, and then I find my own dwelling.

When I shut the door behind me, my eyes immediately land on the scroll. It sits on the desk. Mocking me.

My house is quiet. Always quiet.

The only sound is the faint hum of the city beyond the door, and the scratch of my calloused hands against the wood of the desk as I pick up a pen and go to retrieve the scroll.

Staring at me.

"Just go," Teo had told me when we talked about the Mating Journey.

I bite my lips together. My fingers brush the pen. I roll it between them, stare at the parchment, and—after a pause—set it down.

I don’t need to go to the festival.

I don’t need the pageantry, the spectacle, the false smiles from strangers who don’t really see me. But I could go for Arlet.

I wouldn’t have to see anyone else. Wouldn’t have to talk, wouldn’t have to pretend. I could just be there in case she needs me.

Daniel is still out there. And that thought alone makes my decision.

I sit back, exhaling slowly.

And then, I smile.