Page 13 of A Cursed Bite (Bound to the Enduar #1)

ARLET

M y heart pounds so loud, I’m sure the enduares can hear me. We wait for the sign to start.

Then, Mother Liana strikes the ore-chime and a deep, metallic toll rings out. The sound is rich and layered, rippling across the crowd.

The murmurs return like a rushing tide. I smile just as the first wave of women pushes forward, their scrolls in hand.

Inspecting my scroll once more, it takes me a moment to realize the first symbol is fourteen . Since that is the closest to me, I set off there first, winding my way through potted plants from Estela’s magical underground garden, carefully placed alongside artfully arranged crystals that hum soft, ringing tones. The cavern is bursting with color—flowers, jewelry, food, mead—so much that it makes my head spin.

When I arrive at tent fourteen, a small crowd of women has already gathered, admiring the man inside. I shouldn’t be surprised by the lavish arrangement of jewels hanging from towering crystals.

Jewelry is very common in the under mountain, but sometimes I forget just how much of it there is. Humans aren’t used to such finery, so we mainly bring it out for special occasions.

My eyes land on the tall, ocean-risen enduar inside, wearing nothing but a loincloth. His broad shoulders gleam under the warm light. He’s got the darkest blue eyes I’ve ever seen—so much so that they are almost black, and his hair is also exceptionally smoke-grey. My mouth parts.

I blink, sure I didn’t see him waiting in the group of people. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him before. His muscles look like they are carved from stone and his legs are built like pillars. He greets each woman with a slow, reverent kiss, and they actually swoon at his touch.

My feet move before my mind, and I take a step forward to join the line. But then I look at the other women in front of me and remember how hollow I feel receiving affection from a man also charming other women so openly.

It is fun to be adored and pampered. I couldn’t blame anyone for wanting that. But I wasn’t totally comfortable with casual. Definitely wasn’t open to sharing.

Being honest, it ruins the moment for me. He’s attractive, but I don’t think this will work. I want to be wanted so desperately that it feels like I am slowly losing my mind. I want someone who sees only me, burns for me, doesn’t look at another when I am near.

I want that person also to be my mate, so I could have another chance to be a mother.

I exhale, staunching any disappointment, and glance down at my scroll for the next number. Number thirty-nine.

I move on down the passageways between rows of tents.

As I weave through more stations, another chime sounds—this one higher pitch and twinkling. A low moan follows, throaty and desperate, and I whip my head around just in time to see the human woman from earlier, Dashia, pinned beneath an enduar man I don’t know, caught in a frenzy of lust, their passionate kissing fully on display.

Assistants rush forward, cloaks held high to shield the scene and a few humans laugh uncomfortably around me.

The announcement rings through the cavern, voices lifting with it. "The first matehood has been made!"

The words leave me hollow and burning all at once. That happened so fast. What the hell? She wasn’t even looking for a mate.

I scold myself for the unkind thought, and press on.

We are all different. We all have different needs.

My breath is uneven, the damp warmth of the cavern crawling along my spine. I wipe sweat from my brow, swallowing the frustration curling in my gut and hoping my makeup doesn’t show off my freckles.

Reminding myself I mostly only came here for Estela and to support the council doesn’t help. I just feel… behind?

I reach tent thirty-nine almost hoping for something miraculous to occur, but the result is the same. The decorations are different, but the enduar man inside is equally stunning, and the ritualistic gathering of potential partners is just as familiar.

But this time, I don’t leave. I wait until I’m standing before the man, and smile.

“Lady Arlet,” he says. “It is an honor.”

My lips twitch. We’re both fully clothed, but I feel so exposed. There is no place to talk or see if we might have shared interests. No place to have a few minutes to get to know each other.

This feels shallow.

After a few seconds, I realize neither of us have spoken.

“Sorry. Hello. Uhm, how are you?”

“Fine, thank you,” he says.

There are a few giggles behind me and my skin burns.

The man, who’s name I don’t even know, looks down at me and I can practically hear what he’s thinking. No song. No pull. Next please.

My eyes burn. This is happening too fast. He’s decided I’m not worth it before I ever had a chance.

Another chime strikes, and I flinch. More lovers giving their joy to Grutabela and Endu. And there’s me—sweaty, restless, empty.

“I wish you luck,” I say, moving out of line, and sucking in as much fresh air as I can muster.

I don’t want to feel this way anymore. I need to finish visiting my tents so I can leave.

The press of bodies around me, the warmth of laughter, the electric hum of the Mating Journey spinning onward—it all tightens around my ribs. Too much sound, too much light, too much expectation.

It hurts to try and to be rejected. It breaks another piece of my heart, despite all the time I’d spent mentally preparing. I try to focus on the joy in the air, the celebration, but my thoughts twist inward, sharp and unrelenting.

I catch the eye of a few enduar and human men while walking, exchanging flirtations, letting myself pretend—just for a moment—that I don’t need to feel pressure.

Each time, I draw near. I feel a flicker of expectation, and then—moments in—both of us would realize there was no song. It didn’t matter that not all songs started immediately. With only one day to meet as many people as possible, they all want instant results.

Each moment curdles, shifts, and I watch as their expressions soften, and they would excuse themselves.

That is worse.

Ulla had told me once that I needed matehood to have a child. That memory burrow deep, clawing at a wound I can’t seem to close.

More couples find each other and form bonds that will grow into something more. And I am spinning, spinning, spinning—drifting through a ritual that is not meant for me.

What the hell was Estela thinking? What was I thinking?

I turn away, pretending I don’t care, pretending it doesn’t sting like an open wound. Wiping my hands on my dress, I swallow the emotions and start walking again.

Just one more tent.

I turn down another row, head down, my temples throbbing. Then I hear a laugh that makes my heart stutter. I look up to see Joso standing in front of his tent, a few women lined up to meet him.

He looks just as he always does. His silver hair is neatly woven into three plaits, thick braids falling over his shoulder the same way it had when he used to walk me home at night. The same way it had when he twined his fingers with mine under the festival lights, kissed me, and told me he wanted a mate.

Back then, I had thought it could be me .

The women waiting for him are eager, hopeful, and I’m not surprised to see a few men also interested. He greets them with that easy, lopsided smile, the one that used to make my stomach flip. The way he stands, relaxed but engaged, is familiar—the same way he had stood when he first asked me to join him for a meal.

Hostia, he even wears the same deep blue tunic embroidered with silver thread, fitted at the waist with a belt of braided leather that he wore the night he ended things.

That night, I remember him jovial. He’d had a few glasses of mead—and his tongue came loose.

Vann had come to join us. He’d started a string of uncomfortable questions after talking about his experience in the battle a week before.

I remember how Vann looked at Joso, smiled a bit, and said, “War changes your perspective. Makes things feel more urgent. You see what’s important, no?”

A strange look had passed over Joso’s face. “You’re right.” When he set his drink down, he exhaled like a decision had been weighing on him.

I shifted in my seat. Something about Joso’s tone made a familiar emotion creep up. Panic.

“And what has felt important to you?” I asked, not looking at Vann.

He pursed his lips. “We don’t have to do this right here.”

Ice coated my skin. Wrong. He had been marginally less affectionate than before, but the retreat of his warmth had me feeling anxious. The same switch had been abrupt with Daniel. He went from being so attentive to distant and absent.

It was happening again and I couldn’t handle it. I stood, walking away from the table. Joso followed me, grabbing my arm. It wasn’t aggressive, but I reacted. Pulling away, almost hitting him.

“It’s over, isn’t it?” I said, looking up at him as my throat burned.

He frowned, processing slower than normal after all that drink. "I want a mate, Arlet."

My skin had gone cold .

“Our song hasn’t started,” he continued. “You are beautiful. And fun.”

“And it’s over,” I said with finality. “I can’t give you what you want so you will cast me aside.”

I couldn’t help but cry. And Vann, seeing my reaction, had come over, and punched him. It all happened so fast, I don’t even remember why he’d been so abrupt.

Joso and I didn’t see each other afterwards. I was humiliated but he hadn’t deserved the hit.

And now, as his eyes sweep over the crowd, he looks the same.

Until he sees me.

For a split second, something flickers in his gaze—maybe hesitation. Then, he offers me a small smile.

I grip the fabric of my sleeve and step back. Slinking into the crowd, I hurry until I find the next tent listed on my scroll.

Two more and I can go home.

No men or women are waiting at the front of this particular space. I hesitate before going in. Then, a friendly face emerges. A very human face.

The man has an open, easy expression. Atop his head are dark curls cropped short, sun-kissed umber skin, and a smile that reaches his eyes. He’s a bit taller than me.

I smile, relieved. It’s been a while since I’ve felt at ease around another human. Especially a man. I approach, pleased to find him alone. Maybe this time, I won’t feel the weight of expectation. Maybe the ritualistic shame won’t cut quite as deep.

"Hello," he says, smiling. "I've seen you before."

I tilt my head. "Yes. I'm Lady Arlet."

"No," he says, eyes flickering with recognition. "I think with the children. You volunteer for my nephew."

I beam. The children.

"Yes! Who is your nephew?"

"Aiden."

"Ah—yes. He’s torn his pants more than once on the playfield,” I laugh.

The man laughs, too. "It's nice to see you have such a nurturing heart."

I consider how he talks about his nephew. “It's not common that I see humans that stick together in families from before arriving in the city.”

He grins. "I'm cut from a lucky cloth."

Something inside me tenses. That phrase. A human phrase. The kind steadiness in his voice creeps up my neck, settling deep in my chest.

It feels like he understands something inside of me.

Without thinking, I step closer, letting my fingers brush against his as I take his outstretched hand. His thumb strokes the back of mine, a slow, absent motion.

"Well, my name is Diego," he says, voice warm. "Can I interest you in something to drink? I've been instructed at least twelve times to make sure anyone who visits is well-cared for.”

I smile, letting him guide me inside.

"I'd love that."

The tent is large, sturdy, stretched over a frame of bone and substantial wooden supports. The walls are made of cave bear skins, cured and stitched together, and their deep brown fur brushed smooth. The entrance flap is tied back, allowing the light from the glowing cavern crystals to enter and flicker against the armor displayed along the inner walls.

Diego moves with practiced ease, reaching for a clay vessel on the nearby table. He pours deep amber mead into two cups, the scent of honey and spice rising in the warm air.

"Work with old Flova in the forges?" I ask, tilting my head. “He’s a good craftsman. I’ve seen his work.”

He nods. "Yes. In Zlosa, I used to…" He trails off, his lips pressing together. "Well, that is something for another time."

His presence is solid behind me, warm, but not demanding. I turn, watching him carefully, and take the goblet from his hands before sipping. There’s something confident about him.

As Diego tells me about his family, I lean in, listening intently. His voice is warm, and his stories are full of vibrant colors. I'm shocked how happy his life had been serving under the giants. He had a family that stayed together and a childhood of shared meals and kindness aside from the brutality of the giants.

I like imagining that. I smile when he does, nod when he speaks of his sister’s wedding shortly after coming to Enduvida, laugh softly when he shares a boyhood memory of mischief gone wrong.

It is nice to talk to someone without so much pressure finally.

Then, his voice dips, turning thoughtful.

“May I see your scroll?”

I pause, then oblige. This is the first time that’s happened. It is not easy to hand over a piece of paper that reduced all of me to a few simple answers.

“Let me know if you need help.” I’m not trying to be condescending, just… realistic.

He smiles, clearly not offended. Then begins to look. I fidget and let my gaze wander.

“A woman of wit, I see,” he says with a grin.

My smile softens, and I think of Vann. Those words he helped me come up with.

“I suppose so,” I respond, thinking about last night again. How nice it had been. It is good to be Vann’s friend.

Diego looks up with a smile. “I see you want to be a mother. I've always wanted children," he admits. "A family of my own. Someone to build a life with. Someone to share it with."

The words sink deep, lodging in my ribs and reminding me of the sad truth. I swallow, fingers curling against the fabric of my skirt.

I have heard this before. I have lived this before.

Well then, if there is no song with Diego, I should do us both a kindness and leave. My breath feels too tight in my chest, but I force a smile, nodding like nothing inside me has shifted. Like I don’t already know how this ends.

He reaches the bottom part, where I was meant to share a few thoughts about sexual compatibility. I included my preference for men, and then very lightly skimmed over some of the things I was still too nervous to share. Joso hadn’t liked some of my fantasies, and I worried that it wasn’t common in Enduvida .

Then he finishes reading my scroll and meets my gaze.

"Can I kiss you?"

I swallow. Am I ready for that? This doesn’t feel hollow to me. He is nice, and I like talking to him.

It is just a kiss.

“Yes,” I say with a nod.

He comes near. His lips hover over mine, waiting, before finally pressing against my skin. It is soft, chaste, fleeting. And when he pulls back, I feel…Nothing. No heat. No surge. No song.

A quiet, hollow disappointment sinks in my chest. His hand slides gently around my waist, but I shift back, forcing space between us.

No matehood, no family, I say. If that’s what he wants, you have to give him time to find it.

Spare the both of you pain. Go.

"Did I do something wrong?" he asks softly.

I shake my head. "No. You are lovely—it’s me. Thank you. I just… have others to meet."

A faint frown flickers across his lips, but he doesn’t pull away immediately. His hand lingers over mine, holding me there, as if he is waiting for something more.

I look back at him, offering one last smile.

"If you don’t find a new partner, come back to me," he says, his grin warm and hopeful. "I'd love nothing more than to spend the evening soaking up your presence."

Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he lifts my hand to his lips and presses a kiss to my knuckles.

A part of me wants to stay.

Instead, I push out of the tent, stepping into the swirling chaos, and realize a crowd has formed while I was in the tent.

I catch the gaze of a few other women waiting in line. A sharp twinge of jealousy blooms in my chest, but I swallow it and keep walking.

With all the sincerity in my heart, I hope he finds what he is looking for.

I barely pass two tents, head down, before I collide—hard—into a broad chest.

Solid. Unyielding. A head and a half taller than me.

His arm slides around my back, steadying me as I step back, breath catching as I look up—right into Vann’s scowl. His gaze shifts, following the path I’d been looking at before moments ago.

"Your cheeks are flushed," he says bluntly.

The world around me spins. I can’t even manage a response.

"Why haven’t you come to my tent?" he demands.

I frown. "So you did decide to come. Good for you. Meet any interesting women?"

"I thought you would at least visit,” he continues.

I smooth out my skirts, taking another stuttering breath. "Which number was your tent?"

"Twenty-four," he says abruptly.

I pull my list from my pocket, scanning the numbers. "It wasn’t on here. I would’ve visited if I’d known."

Before I can react, he snatches the paper from my hands.

Again, he takes my things. He crosses into the bubble I keep around myself.

"Vann—"

He groans. "Whoever wrote this had atrocious script."

I roll my eyes. "Oh?"

He narrows his gaze at me, flipping the page toward my face. The fourteen is poorly written, nearly unreadable. And now I see the gentle curve at the top of the first character.

"Oh."

He rolls the paper up and hands it to me.

"No matter. We will go back now. Are you hungry?" He takes my hand and starts moving.

I stare at him in utter disbelief. "Wait," I quip.

He stops, turning.

"You can’t be serious. You don’t need to entertain the idea of this silly ritual for me. I know we’re friends now, but I am weary. I want to go home. You should do the same, I know you didn’t want to come. ”

"Who told you that?"

"You did."

His jaw tightens, but then he mutters. "Dalkhir von torath."

My brow furrows, not fully catching the heavily accented enduar. "What does that mean?"

"Come with me to eat before you faint," he grumbles.

I stand my ground.

“No. It’s been a long day."

His stare darkens. "Why won’t you come? Surely I was agreeable enough last night. I promised to be kinder.”

"Because going with you would mean something to the others looking."

The air goes still.

Vann freezes, body preternaturally tense. He turns, his movements slow, deliberate. My stomach flips over itself a half dozen times.

"There is more to life than endlessly chasing matehood" he says, voice low.

I meet his gaze, unflinching. He doesn’t know what being blessed and chosen means to me. He doesn’t know all the scars I carry.

And I am not sure I want to tell him.

“But the purpose of this festival is just that. Since we don’t have any signs that we are to be bound, I would like to leave now and we can talk later, when I feel less overwhelmed.”

He just stares.

Disbelief lingers in his expression, but I step back, taking my hand back. A long moment stretches between us before he straightens, composing himself.

"Fine," he says coolly. “I will see you later.”

“Until then,” I murmur. Then I turn, pushing into the crowd, willing the weight of his stare to fade.

But it doesn’t.

And as I approach my final tent, my heart plummets.

It is empty.

Another man gone. Another missed chance.

My stomach rumbles, and I realize how hasty I was with Vann earlier. He was being kind, and I wasn’t. I should apologize, and perhaps he’ll offer me something small to eat.

I retrace my steps to the start of the tents. My breath is unsteady, my hands curled into fists at my sides. When I finally reach Vann’s tent, several women linger, but he is gone.

What if… he found someone?

I don’t like the thought, but the more logical part of me doubts it.

Out of curiosity, I turn toward the displayed parchment, the one where tent patrons had written their desirable qualities for a woman to see.

I step closer.

I scan the page.

Desires to be a father.

I wince.

Would be exceptionally good at caring for a wife.

Enjoys painting.

Interested in intelligent women with a hunger for reading and weaving.

My breath catches. My hand tightens around the scroll.

Something inside me twists—deep and sharp. This has to be a joke. An iteration of the conversation we had last night. Slowly, my eyes drift over the tent’s decorations and land on the details arranged for viewing.

There are fortune-telling crystal cards, slivers of razor sharp obsidian formed to look like a playing card, catch my gaze first, lined up neatly along the side of the tent. I follow their carefully painted images—underground caverns studded with jeweled mushrooms, a breathtaking enduar woman I do not recognize, and then...

A red-haired human woman standing beneath a starlit forest. Her back is turned, but her unbound hair spills down her spine, curling at the edges in a way I know all too well. An ache blossoms inside me.

Is this meant to be me?

No.

No, that would be ridiculous .

Aside from last night, Vann has spent the better part of a year avoiding me, oscillating between helping me when it suits him and acting as though I am a thorn in his side.

My mind spins. If we were mates… We would know by now.

It has been almost a year.

If fate had meant for us to be bound, we would have felt it.

This? I think, looking at the tent again. This is a joke.

He must have copied my own words, the ones he helped me write, and twisted them into something to get under my skin.

My hands curl into fists, and without thinking, I march away, only to run into the human man from earlier. Diego.

He is carrying armor, smiling.

"Hello, lovely. Sad you didn’t take me up on that offer?"

The arrogance is almost too much. But it is warm, teasing, effortless. It smooths over the raw ache I’ve been trying to ignore.

I haven’t been with anyone in months. Haven’t felt wanted in longer than that. I’m tired of being lonely, of watching everyone else find warmth while I stand in the cold.

I exhale sharply, forcing a slow, easy grin onto my face. "Who said I didn’t take you up on it? I was coming to find you."

His smile widens. "Well then, let’s not waste time." He looks away back at his tent a few rows away, but I don’t want to be there. I don’t want to be heard. I don’t want to hear anyone else.

“You’ll like my dwelling. Come,”

He follows me, weaving through the crowd, up the tunnel, across the agonizing distance, until we reach my house. I step inside, shut the door, and turn to face him. The armor barely clatters to the floor before his lips are on mine.

And it is enough. Enough for now. I like knowing that this—this moment, this pleasure, this choice—is mine.

It will be a nice night, one that does not have to be forever—because I don’t even know if forever is in the cards for me.

It certainly hasn’t been up to this point.