Page 26 of A Cursed Bite (Bound to the Enduar #1)

ARLET

W e move with haste after the tent is packed up.

The terrain grows rugged, the incline steepening with every step, and in certain places, the path is barely wide enough for one person to pass at a time.

I ask Vann to put me down, knowing that my body is capable of pushing itself hard. Trying to find a way to walk with him carrying me would only slow us down.

I want to be far from Arion and his men.

It doesn’t take long to find a tall pass—a jagged scar cut through the mountains, its mouth yawning and swallowing the light of the afternoon sun.

“Should we go over it?” I ask, eyeing the steep slopes rising on either side that are covered with loose scree.

Vann shakes his head. “We’ll go through. It will be faster, which should please you.”

I bite my lip, but say nothing as I follow him inside.

It’s worse here than I imagined.

The air is thin, and each breath is sharp in my lungs. The path itself is treacherous. It’s narrow. Loose rocks skitter beneath our feet with every step, some tumbling into deep cracks. They vanish before I can hear them land .

The wind howls through the passage, blowing between the towering walls of stone, tugging at my coat, and whipping my hair across my face. The further we press on, the darker it becomes. Shadows stretch long and eerie across the path, and the sound of the wind is broken only by the occasional distant crack.

I force myself to keep walking, my hands brushing against the stone wall for balance.

My heart pounds against my ribs. The cold seeps into my bones, and the tension in my muscles only makes everything worse.

Vann moves ahead of me with sure steps, unaffected by the shifting ground. His silver hair contrasts starkly against the dark stone. I focus on that, on the steady rhythm of his movement, using it to ground myself as we continue forward.

A scream shatters the silence.

It’s high-pitched, desperate. And it echoes off the stone, ricocheting through the narrow pass. I’d spent enough time in the school house to recognize a dozen different types of shouts.

That is a child, and they’re in danger.

My heart leaps into my throat. Throwing down my pack, I don’t think, I just run.

“Arlet!” Vann’s voice call behind me, but I’m already moving. My feet pound against the uneven ground, and my breath is ragged as I sprint toward the sound.

As I round a sharp bend in the path, more fear sears through me. There is still enough light for me to spot a small form swathed in green fabric. A child is huddled against the rocks, barely more than a blur in the distance. I push harder. It doesn’t matter that my legs sting and there is a sharp bite of cold air in my lungs.

Vann halts just behind me, cursing under his breath. His pack is also gone, though he holds his cleaver.

“What the hell is a child doing here?” he grumbles.

His eyesight is better than mine, and I turn to ask more questions, but a low growl rolls through the pass.

I freeze mid-step, my body locking up as my ears strain.

Another sound echoes off the stone, vibrating deep in my bones. My pulse pounds, each beat faster than the last .

“A wolf?” I barely manage to get out. Could it be stalking the child?

Vann shakes his head. “No, that wasn’t a wolf.”

Before I can respond, another sound comes from above us. I glance up just as a few pebbles dislodge from a shelf of rock, tumbling down in lazy spirals.

The child screams again in a language I don’t know, and a cold shock slaps across my shoulder blades.

Vann moves, silent as death, holding out his cleaver. He moves like he is the predator—lithe, aware, stealthy.

I hold my breath and scan the cliffs, waiting.

Then, the creature comes into view.

Its tawny coat blends almost perfectly with the sun-soaked rocks, and its muscles ripple beneath its fur. Golden eyes lock onto us, unyielding.

It’s feline and undeniably powerful. A mountain cat.

“Arlet, get behind me,” Vann commands, his voice low and steady.

I obey, breath shallow as the creature prowls closer, gracefully leaping down a series of sloping formations. Its tail lashes, muscles coiling beneath its sleek frame, ready to strike.

Vann stands firm, blade raised. His body is drawn taut like a bowstring. Every movement is controlled.

Then, in an instant, the lion moves—not at Vann, but to the side, toward the pile of rocks where the child hides.

I dive before my mind catches up. The world narrows to the space between me and the child. The lion turns, golden eyes flashing as its focus shifts to me. Vann shouts something, but I don’t stop.

The child—an elven boy, no older than what I would consider five in human years—looks up, terrified. The child's skin is the deep, warm brown of polished walnut, and he’s wrapped in a finely woven green coat. I reach him just as the lion lunges, throwing myself between them.

Pain explodes in my side as the creature’s claws rake across my ribs. White-hot, agony sears along the space. The air is punched from my lungs, but I manage to shove the boy behind me. His hands tug on the back of my coat, throwing me off balance.

My Fuegorra heats in my chest, working in record time to heal the deep wound faster than the tears on my face can fall.

“Vann!” I scream, grabbing the first rock my fingers find and hurling it at the beast.

The mountain lion snarls. It crouches, tail flicking, preparing to strike again. I brace myself for the killing blow.

And then Vann is there. His blade flashes like silver lightning.

The child sobs and seeks my hands. He repeats something over and over in what I assume is an unknown dialect of elvish.

The fight is brutal. The lion’s snarls mingle with the sharp clang of steel on rock. Vann moves with deadly precision; his strikes are clean and relentless. The lion lashes out. Its claws scrape against the leather on his forearms, but he doesn’t falter.

Vann thrusts one last time, and the beast collapses at his feet, blood soaking into the rocky ground.

I slump against the cliff wall, gasping for breath, pain radiating from my side despite the bleeding having stopped. The boy clings to my hip, tiny hands fisting into the fabric, shaking.

Reaching out, I pull him close.

“It’s all right,” I murmur into his impossibly shiny brown hair.

Vann turns to me, breathing hard. “Are you hurt?”

I hesitate.

“Firelocks.”

“Yes,” I say. In truth, the wound was already closing, but the Fuegorra’s effort is taking its toll. My body needs rest, and soon.

Vann curses under his breath, kneeling beside me. His hands are rough, but his touch is careful as he inspects the wound.

“You’re lucky,” he mutters.“Nothing too bad.”

I smile weakly, but the boy whimpers, his body trembling against mine. I exhale, forcing the pain aside, and brush my hand through his dusty hair.

“It’s all right,” I murmur. “You’re safe now.”

His wide, tear-filled eyes meet mine, and something inside me breaks when he leans into me. For the first time in days, I feel like I’ve done something right.

“I’m Arlet, are you well?” I manage in my meager grasp of elvish.

He looks at me, clearly confused and then starts spouting a stream of unfamiliar words.

I look up at Vann, slightly bewildered.

He kneels next to both me and the boy, then begins to speak. The words are clearer, and the lyrical grace surpasses anything I’ve heard before.

The boy responds.

“What language is this?” I ask.

He shoots me an amused look, “I thought you know a little about everything.”

I frown. “Vann.”

“This is a mix of the old northwestern wood elves dialects. I don’t know it fully. I think he’s saying he’s lost.”

“Clearly,” I say, and then the boy stands, pulling on my hand. “Would the elves we encountered by searching for him?”

Vann shrugs and the child starts to run.

“Ask him his name,” I say to Vann.

He does, and the boy responds with, “Lorien.”

I smile down at him, and gesture to him. “Lorien.”

My hand presses to my chest. “Arlet.”

He says the name slowly, but fear is still shining in his eyes when he looks at Vann.

“Don’t worry,” I say, even though I know he can’t understand me. I turn back to my companion, and find him watching the two of us with a grim expression.

“I’ll go for the packs, then we can leave the pass.”

I nod, the boy squeezing my hand as Vann returns to where I carelessly threw my belongings.

Lorien remains silent.

I kneel and speak softly, “It’s all right. You’re safe now.”

He looks at me, confused, and we wait for Vann to return.

When he does, I explain that the child seems uneasy. Instead of responding, Vann crouches beside him and speaks in the unfamiliar language, his tone calm and steady.

The boy listens, still unsure, but the fear in his posture softens.

After a brief exchange, Vann glances at me and, in a gentle motion, scoops the child into his arms, murmuring a few more comforting words as we begin to walk. The child relaxes, though his grip on Vann’s tunic remains tight.

In the distance, the air blows with an unnatural gust. It begins to move faster, with a rumbling sound like thunder.

“ Mierda , is that a storm?” I ask Vann.

He is already looking at the sky, confused. It is growing darker, but there aren’t clear signs of clouds.

“Perhaps. We’ll go fast, and try to find his parents,” Vann responds, the boy burying his head into his shoulder.

The noise comes and goes for the next hour. I watch as Lorien looks to the sky, worried.

“Is he all right?” I ask Vann.

Vann asks the boy, and he just nods.

“Where would his parents be, I wonder,” I continue.

Vann conveys that, too, then takes a sharp breath after the boy’s response.

“He says he doesn’t want to tell you, for fear you will be angry.”

The shock on my face must be apparent, because Vann laughs. I am not scary, nor do I grow angry quickly.

Then a few images of blood and gore flit into my mind. I push them away, soothing myself by knowing that I’m not usually dangerous—and not during my waking hours.

“Relax, Firelocks. My powers of translation are not so strong; he probably meant me.”

I flash Vann a small smile, and we continue. It takes a good hour before we reach the end of the passage, and I am itching to find this child’s parents.

What is he doing out after dark?

A dozen other scenarios play out in my mind, from a runaway child, to traveling caravans accidentally leaving the little one behind.

Vann shoots me a sharp look as we exit the pass, as if to say, Now what?

Another sharp gust of wind sweeps through the air, and with it, it carries the sound of wings beating.

A shadow moves above us, sweeping across the jagged cliffs. Then a massive scaled form descends. Atop it is a dark-skinned elf cloaked in furs, his silhouette framed against the early evening.

My eyes go wide and my heart races.

A… dragon?

In Enduvida, there are crystal wraiths. They hum with the rest of the underground city, but they are as much a mystery as the song of the Enduar Gods. One was ridden into battle by Estela, they call her Drathorinna. The mother of wraiths.

But this is flesh and bone and scale .

Dragons existed in stories, but I’d never seen one—never even considered I would cross paths with one.

A glance at Vann shows him similarly shocked, though the boy curls further into Vann’s shoulder, as if he could hide.

My braid whips around my face, as I squint and look up.

The dragon’s wings flare wide as it lands upon the rocky ledge.

The beast is enormous, its scales gleaming like polished onyx, with sharp, curved horns protruding from its head. Its four powerful legs end in talons, gripping the stone beneath. Its vast, leathery wings fold close against its armored body. The rider slides from the saddle with practiced ease, boots crunching against the rocky surface.

He is tall and clad in dark leather and thick, dark spectacles to cover his eyes. I notice he has many of the same features as the boy: long, sleek hair, a curving nose, deep skin, and fine clothing, though markedly older.

Lorien says something else I don’t catch.

“Is that his father?” I ask Vann.

“Lorien says it’s his uncle, Theren,” Vann says quickly.

The dragon tilts its head back and lets out a high-pitched call.

Three other dragons, each a different hue, appear. One is a deep crimson, another is a stormy gray, and the last is a striking emerald green. Each dragon lands with a tremor in the ground.

I swallow hard, instinct screaming at me to move, but I’m too exhausted, too caught in the sheer presence of what’s before me. Luckily, Vann steps closer, partially hiding me from view.

Theren’s gaze bears into us—piercing, assessing. Then, his voice cuts through the frozen air.

He uses the dialect I don’t understand. Vann steps in front of me, calling out answers back at him, gesturing at Lorien.

Lorien looks like a child properly scolded. These must be his people, and I relax feeling my previous scenarios melt away.

Vann continues to argue as I stare at the dragons, mesmerized by the lethal strength in every shift of their feet.

My gods, what would it be like to ride atop one?

When I’d looked at crystal wraiths in Enduvida, I thought I would be afraid to ride them. But I am not the same person as I was then—I’d traveled across the continent, fought the enemy, spoken to a formidable leader and won the trust of a man fierce enough to be called The Cleaver.

Fear stems from the unknown, but the world felt less so to me each day. Slowly, that fear is being replaced with curiosity.

My bold new attitude dissolves when the elf atop the green dragon strings an arrow in a bow and points it at Vann and me. I yelp, shifting back in the face of the threat.

Lorien yells out something, and Vann’s voice turns soothing.

Theren, the rider with the onyx dragon, calls out something else.

The boy laughs, and then moves to get down. Vann obliges, then Lorien looks back at me, waving one last time before the elf riding the black dragon scoops him up into his arms.

Theren begins to shift Lorien in every which direction—probably looking for injuries—and Lorien starts to spin a tale in his quick, high voice. I can tell because the boy imitates the sound of the mountain cat, only pausing to point at me with a smile.

The man frowns. And then, he looks up and spits a few more violent-sounding words at Vann. At least, as violent as they can be in a language as beautiful as elvish .

“Come here, Firelocks,” Vann shoots back at me gruffly. Then his hand scoops around my waist, pulling me close on the opposite side to Lorien.

I gasp at the sudden movement. But the rider atop the grey dragon bites out a few more lyrically harsh words.

Vann looks down at me and his grip tightens. “Play along.”

Before I can protest, his head dips, and his lips brush the crown of my head.

Every ounce of sense in my body hones in on that action, and my skin burns slightly when he pulls back.

To any onlooker, it would seem intimate. Protective. But I can feel the tension in his body.

I don’t like forced affection.

One of the elves narrows his eyes, lowering his bow slightly but still not at ease. The leader, now holding Lorien, tilts his head as if assessing the situation.

Vann switches to elvish, his tone controlled but firm. A low exchange passes between them, and I am surprised to pick out a few familiar words—travelers and Mrath.

The leader of the group laughs, but after a long pause, the one with the bow atop the green dragon lowers his weapon completely.

Theren gestures for us to move.

“We’re in luck,” Vann murmurs under his breath, his fingers still pressing into my waist. His mouth presses in a firm line. “Remember how Mrath told us to find a city in the mountains? That they would be able to take us to the witches? I think they are from there. They want us to come, that they might issue you a proper thank you and assist us as needed.”

I swallow hard, my eyes flickering from him to the towering dragons, then back to the warriors who watch our every movement. “To thank me?” I echo, though my voice is hoarse. “I am just glad the boy is all right.”

The man on the dragon, Theren, hears. He cocks his head to the side and furrows his brow as Lorien balances on his side.

“Ah, it is not often I can use the common tongue. It will be a delight to practice.” His voice is so accented, it takes me a second to recognize the words.

I break into a smile. “I understand you!”

Theren grins, then says something else to Vann as he replaces his goggles over his eyes. I wait until he’s ready to translate.

After a few more words tossed back and forth, Vann says, “Apparently, Mrath did tell them to look for our arrival. And you have saved their leader’s only son. Lorien snuck onto a dragon, and strapped himself to one of their legs. He came here with the group waiting for us, but they expected us earlier. He ran away when they landed.”

I look up at him. “En serio?”

He smiles. “Well done, Arlet. Come.”

I suck in another breath, my core warming at his compliment. Then I let his hand guide me along. How strangely familiar his touch is, especially since I’d once thought he’d be the last man to hold me close. How comforting it is to have someone to care for me.

The last thought comes accidentally, but I don’t push it away. In fact, I welcome it.

The elves mount their dragons with the ease of men stepping onto solid ground, their hands guiding the beasts with precise gestures. The leader turns back to us and motions for us to follow.

My gaze lingers on the dragons, on their massive wings and sharp talons. But deep inside me, something thrums with anticipation.

No, a rush flows through my veins. For so long, I wanted to stay home. I wasn’t one to try to explore outside, but this? I am excited for this.

Vann releases me slowly, his touch lingering for just a moment longer than necessary, and I step forward, only for the men to gesture furiously at Vann. They take our packs, secure them in a net, and Vann steps forward.

I watch as he puts on another pair of spectacles and is helped onto the beast. Once he is firmly on the dragon’s back, the massive creature blows out a hot breath from its nose, causing me to jump.

Vann holds out his hand, urging me toward him. He pulls me up. It’s a blur of movement, and then my legs straddle the makeshift saddle, crafted from rough, woven fibers and tightly bound leather. The seat is uneven but sturdy, designed for function more than comfort.

I’m glad to have pants over a skirt, as the coarse material digs into my thighs.

The rider looks back and ignores me, handing a rope to Vann to hold onto and more eye coverings for me.

“What was all that about?” I ask, looking up at Vann as I position the spectacles.

He frowns.

“It appears that, for them, it’s improper to touch another man’s wife,” he grumbles.

My jaw goes slack. “Wife? Do they think that I am your wife?”

Vann looks down, a hint of a smirk teasing his lips. “Yes. Mrath told them we were together, and they assumed marriage. This is good news, no? I thought you were looking for a husband.”

I laugh. I am not angry—not even a little. In fact, something warm washes through me. It builds, coils, and concentrates between my thighs. Even the subtle shift in the saddle makes me nearly jump as it presses against my sex.

This is… a lot.

And yet, it feels normal.

Daniel wasn’t half the man Vann was. His affection couldn’t hold a candle to how I feel when Vann holds me close.

My cheeks flush, thinking of the last time he was behind me and he’d cradled me against him in his sleep. It’s surprising, but a part of me is thrilled to be Vann’s, even if only for a few days.

“Well, I suppose I could’ve chosen worse,” I retort.

I feel his chuckle reverberate through his chest.

“I won’t think less of you if you scream,” he says. “I might actually prefer it.”

And then, the dragon begins to move.