Page 22 of A Cursed Bite (Bound to the Enduar #1)

VANN

G lyni leads us deeper into the Sisterhood’s Enclave. As a young man, I’d visited the elven capital, Shvathemar. It was a gleaming, wooden city. But this… it is unlike other places I’ve seen carved from trees.

The Sisterhood’s Enclave is woven together by magic, not blade nor chisel. The branches arch overhead, forming walls and corridors that creak, their shapes shifting ever so slightly.

It’s warm, too. The pack is heavy on my back, and I pull on my shirt to cool myself down. I can even see a few stray strands of hair curling along Arlet’s neck.

Glyni leads us toward a structure that seems to have grown from the earth itself. The walls are woven from gnarled vines and sturdy branches. Flowers bloom in the eaves, glowing faintly, their petals sparkling as if they’d just been watered.

The elf presses her palm against the twisted frame of the entrance. The wood sighs, shifting under her fingers, and the doorway unfurls, revealing the space within. The air temperature is pleasant compared to the rest of the enclave.

“I have prepared two rooms for you,” Glyni says. A brief relief washes over me before she continues, “Ah, my common tongue is lacking. I suppose I should say, two spaces. ”

I step inside first, immediately noting the organic curves of the room, its walls forming seamless shelves of roots and vines. The soft glow of bioluminescent leaves gives the space a gentle radiance, but it’s impossible to miss that there are only a few furnishings.

A lavatory is open in the back with what I can only assume is a door similar to the entrance, and there is a tub nestled next to a flowing fountain. A folding partition constructed by leaves covers part of the bathing area.

And then… in the middle of the room, there is a bed. One wide bed covered in a blanket woven with shimmering threads.

“One bed?” I ask flatly, turning toward Glyni.

“Two spaces on either side.” She smiles, unbothered. “A generous arrangement, considering the Sisterhood does not often extend hospitality to outsiders. Even your king did not spend the night when he visited. You should be grateful.”

Arlet’s expression is unreadable as she moves past me, her fingers ghosting over the bed coverings. She doesn’t protest, nor does she look at me.

“Rest,” Glyni commands. “You’ll see Mrath in the morning.”

I step forward, brows furrowing. The canopy of leaves covers most of the sky, and there are no windows in this room. “How will we know it is morning?”

Glyni smiles. “I will come to wake you.”

Something slithers through my insides. I didn’t trust the elves here—they are not strictly honorable.

“Are you sure there is no way to meet with her sooner?” I ask politely.

“She does not want to see guests tonight,” Glyni says, though there’s a flicker of something in her gaze—amusement, perhaps. “Enjoy your time together.”

Then the door folds shut and we are left alone.

“Well, that wasn’t the least bit helpful,” I grumble.

Arlet laughs behind me. “What did you expect? The elves are rarely forthcoming. I’m just eager to speak with Mrath—I miss home.”

There’s that word again. It sounds so sweet to my ears .

"Come, you should prepare for sleep,” I say, holding out my hand.

She doesn’t protest as I ease our packs to the ground and guide her to sit on the bed. As soon as she does, she starts pulling at the laces of her boots, her fingers fumbling slightly.

I crouch in front of her, reaching for her shoes.

Her brow furrows. “I can do it.”

“I know you are active, Arlet, but preparing for a trek like the one we’ve endured the last few days is hard. I know you are tired—fuck, even I am ready to sleep,” I loosen the knots. “Just let me help.”

She exhales, something between a sigh and a grumble, but she doesn’t push me away. Not really.

My fingers slide through the laces. One boot slips off, then the other.

"Vann, go away. I’m dirty. I stink," she mutters, shifting uncomfortably.

She’s wrong. I have travelled with unwashed troops—this is not a stink . It’s a light odor.

When she tries to move, she pulls her grimy sock half-way down. It reveals her curse mark.

"Wait.” My hand curls behind her ankle.

It’s the first chance I’ve had to really look at it—the dark lines winding around her skin in the form of a serpent poised to strike.

Seeing it settles like a weight on my shoulders, unease prickling at the edges of my thoughts.

Arlet tugs her foot away. “Thank you, but I don’t like looking at it. It reminds me of Diego.”

“I can understand why," I respond. I had things I didn’t like remembering.

I change the subject, placing her boots beside me, and sitting against the wall. My legs stretch out, and I cross one over the other.

The position, her on the bed and me on the floor, is casual. I feel comfortable around her. Despite her looking tired, she is studying the room.

“What do you think of this place?” I ask.

She pauses. “That is a little hard for me to answer.”

“Why? ”

Arlet looks at me, almost wary. “The first thirty years of my life, I was confined to the same small area. Then Estela brought me with her to Enduvida. The journey was… brutal. We were cold. Poorly dressed. Some of us were whipped along the way. I don’t remember much of the scenery.”

She lets out a long breath, then looks up again.

“Enduvida was the most beautiful place I’d ever seen. More beautiful than any glimpse of finery I saw in Zlosa. But now I’ve seen the sunrise, and the way the forest looks covered in mist, and living trees that morph themselves into what seems to be an entire town, and I can’t help but think the under mountain’s beauty has its rivals,” her lip curls at the corners.

I like the way she speaks. It’s poetic—and I liked reading the poets of old. But she still speaks like she’s doing something wrong.

“Why do you say that like it’s a bad thing?” I ask. “There are many beautiful places around the world. No enduar would fault you for that.”

“Because I owe everything to your people. I feel ungrateful for even considering to love anything else. And…” she pauses. “The only reason I am seeing any of this is because of something I did that was wrong. Perhaps, even more than what I just said, I feel guilty for seeing anything lovely when I did something so awful, such a short time ago.”

Well, fuck. That first part, about gratitude sounds exactly like something I used to say. I had been such an ass back then.

“Arlet, do you think you are ungrateful because of ideas I used to spout?”

She shakes her head, but then pauses. “Perhaps in part, but I felt it before you said anything. I guess… it is simply how I see things.”

I exhale, then lean forward. A few lines from my favorite poet, Lo’Niht come to my mind. I translate the words from memory.

“Regret clings too easily, like burrs in the hem of a weary traveler ? —

A weight that asks nothing but to be carried.

But beauty? Beauty is lighter, fleeting, slipping through open hands,

Yet it does not demand to be earned.

It simply is.

You have walked far enough beneath heavy skies, let your step, for once, fall upon something soft.”

Arlet goes entirely still, but her gaze is unyielding as she watches me. There is a slight crease between her brows as she considers the words.

“That was… beautiful. What is a man like you, the Butcher’s Cleaver, doing reading poetry?” she teases.

I huff a laugh. “I know for a fact you can weave, sew, teach, read, write, heal, and cook. You do not need to be just one thing, why should I?”

A smile stretches over her face. “And the paintings at the Mating Journey?”

It’s my turn to pause. “Those were…”

I don’t know what to say. I’d brought some of my recent pieces, and there had been one of her. I hadn’t set out to make the painting of her , per se. But it came out beautifully.

“You have unusual hair,” I murmur. “It pairs well with other colors.”

Her brows shoot up, surprised. “That is so sweet. Are there any other parts of me you’d like to paint?”

My mind goes dangerous places before circling back to a simpler answer. I lift my hands, pointing to her freckles. “Your spots.”

Her smile vanishes, and she brings a hand up to cover them.

“What?” I ask.

“Humans don’t—well, technically, I didn’t think anyone liked sunspots. They are blemishes. Ugly. I try to cover them.”

I frown, pushing onto my knees to position myself in front of her. She draws back as I assess her face. “They are not, and you shouldn’t.”

Silence stretches between us, but I don’t move. It is lovely here, close to her. Maybe it’s the room, but I feel warm with her.

“You are surprising,” she says. “The poetry, the paintings, and… this. I think I finally understand how you’ve been Teo’s closest friend for so long.”

I tilt my head to the side. “What about it was not clear?”

She shrugs. “Teo is extremely kind and open. You are the opposite.”

“Not all people open like unlocked doors, Firelocks. Some take time—like winter-bound rivers, slow to thaw, but no less deep.”

She nods slowly. “I think I’m seeing that.”

Her answer doesn’t sit right with me. Seeing that , as if it was not something she instinctively understood, as I have come to understand parts of her.

She squirms under my gaze.

“I think you always knew.”

She sucks in a breath. “What?”

“You’ve never noticed how you lean into me when there is danger? How you seek me in a crowd? Perhaps you do not always love to see me, but you always want to know if I am there.”

“I—” She blinks, chest rising and falling rapidly. “I think?—”

Heat pulses between us and I walk the line between action and inaction. I could touch her.

My fingers ache to touch her.

My blood is hot in my veins, for the first time in gods know how long.

But that would be cruel to both of us. I shift out of the way, giving her a bit more space.

“It is fine, Firelocks. I am merely making an observation.”

We are silent for a time. Then her body angles from me and she stands, “Thank you for this. Really. I don’t want to cut it short, but—” her gaze goes to the tub in the corner. “I would like to bathe before you bind me again.”

My pulse jumps and I sit up. “Here? We should talk about the morning.”

“Technically there,” she says, breathless, nodding toward the hollow basin large enough to fit a human. Next to it, a stream of clear water pours from the wall. “I know you think I should stand around while you craft a master plan, but we’ve been walking for days. We can’t do anything until morning. It’s been a very long time since I was this dirty. ”

“With me in the room?”

She purses her lips. “There’s a covering. And I think you have more than earned my trust that you won’t look.” Then Arlet casts me a devious smile. It’s playful, not at all sexual.

But I have seen her naked. I had a very strong reaction. The thought of her undressing near me…

“I don’t think it’s a good idea. What if we need to leave quickly?”

She groans.

“Mi Cielo, I promise you, I will not manage to open the room to this door and wander outside into the cold, misty forest so I can freeze to death.”

I say nothing, forcing my gaze to stay fixed on the floor.

Mi cielo.

My sky.

Hmm. Why would she call me that?

She walks past me, close enough that I can smell her—salt and wind and something faintly sweet. I clench my fists.

“You could probably use a wash, too,” she says over her shoulder, teasing.

“I’ll pass,” I mutter, mind churning.

Arlet laughs softly, the sound trailing behind her as she moves toward the basin. I don’t look. Hearing the water splashing is bad enough. It makes my mind conjure images I have no right to think about.

A sharp ache spreads through my limbs, radiating from my chest, heavy and numbing all at once.

I have no heart. That means no circulation. No warmth with her gone. My limbs feel slow and stone-heavy.

I move onto the bed, and start to look through the items stacked on a table. Under a few books written in elvish, I find a tome with blank pages. A small slot is on the front where a bit of charcoal is placed.

Books were not totally foreign concepts to me, but I found them less effective than scrolls. Even still, the charcoal scratches nicely over the page. I spend a few moments, sketching out a few basic trees. It helps ease the tension that comes from hearing Arlet wash herself.

I count my breaths, forcing control. One. Two. Three. Then I sketch a bit more.

A sharp curse snaps me from my focus.

“Maldita sea,” Arlet mutters from behind the screen. There’s a rustle, a splash, and then a frustrated sigh.

I glance up at the partition, hiding the book beneath the pillow. “What?”

“I forgot to grab clothes,” she grumbles. “And I’m not about to put those filthy things back on.”

My gaze flicks to the small table near the wall—a neatly stacked pile of folded garments rests there. I push to my feet, crossing the room. Without a word, I pull a fresh gown from the pile and walk toward the screen.

I pause just outside it. “Here.”

A moment of silence. Then a damp hand peeks past the divider, fingers curling around the fabric as she takes it from me. “Gracias.”

I return to my seat against the wall, reclaiming my book. But I don’t focus on my sketching this time. I stare at the page without seeing it, listening to the quiet sounds of fabric shifting as she dresses.

When she steps out, her damp hair clings to her shoulders, water trailing down the curve of her collarbone. I drag my gaze away, clearing my throat.

“I—” My voice falters. I hesitate, about to gesture to her hair. It's long. Adra had long hair and found it hard to style when she was weary.

But Arlet doesn't hear me, instead a dark look comes over her face.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

She doesn't meet my gaze. “I was just wondering when you will tie me up?”

The words land between us, sharp, quiet.

“I think you are safe for tonight.” My voice is steady, but I see something flicker in her eyes when she looks up—fear, not for herself, but for me.

“But what if I wake up and?—”

“I'll be here,” I cut in, my voice firm. “Tomorrow will be stressful with Mrath. You should rest.”

She exhales, her shoulders losing some of their tension. “I really don't know how to express the depth of my gratitude.”

I'm graced with another smile, and then she climbs onto the bed, turning away from me. I wonder if I should be here.

Normally, I would sleep on the floor without thinking. But she likes to be asked. Likes it when I talk.

“Do you mind sharing the bed with me?”

She turns her head back to me and smiles.

“I trust you.”

Trust. What a sweet, precious thing. A heady thing. A sacred thing.

I watch as she settles beneath the blankets, damp strands of hair fanning across the pillow. So informal. So… familiar. Someone… some man would be very lucky to see her loose hair every day.

For a long moment, I just sit there, listening to the steady rhythm of her breath as sleep claims her.

Hours later, the room is quiet. Arlet is asleep, curled up on the bed with her back to me, her breathing slow and even. I sit on the bed, keeping watch.

Was I tired? Yes. But I’m also on edge. I’m very protective of Arlet tonight. I don’t know why.

I don’t dare let my guard down. Not here. Not in a place where the walls seem to listen, where the air hums with power I don’t trust.

I close my eyes briefly, not to sleep, but to steady myself. The soft rustling of blankets draws my attention back to Arlet.

Then, just as I think she has drifted into deep sleep, she shifts.

A breath. A whisper.

“Gracias, Vann.”

My name.

It slips past her lips so softly I almost miss it.

The sound of it curls around my memory. My hands tighten into fists, my jaw clenching against the strange, unwelcome warmth that spreads through me.

She doesn’t wake. Doesn’t say anything else. I don’t move for a long time.

The glow from the bioluminescent leaves dims, but it still casts shifting shadows across her face, softening her worry lines and highlighting the curve of her cheek. The steady rise and fall of her breath is soothing.

In sleep, she looks unburdened, free of the weight she normally carries, and something about it makes my chest ache worse than the cold ever has.

Being in the elven lands makes me think of the missive. So far, we had been lucky, but I wouldn’t rest easy until we were out of Arion’s kingdom.

If Arion ever managed to take her, I was almost sure he would destroy her. Men like him broke beautiful things. They cut wood for their castles, kept precious artifacts behind lock and key, and stomped on rotting corpses to make their way to wherever they deemed important.

I exhale slowly, but it does nothing to ease the pressure building inside me.

Longing is a foreign thing, an emotion I thought I had buried long ago, and yet here it is, clawing its way to the surface, undeniable in its presence. She shifts slightly, curling deeper into the blankets, and my throat tightens. I want to reach out, just once. Just to feel that she’s real, that she’s here, warm and alive beneath my fingers.

But I don’t.

Instead, I press my back harder against the wall, letting the cold anchor me. Wanting is dangerous. Wanting leads to weakness. And weakness, for me, has always led to pain.

So I stay where I am, watching, sketching, listening to the steady rhythm of her breath. And when the pain becomes too much, I close my eyes and pretend I don’t feel it at all.