Page 10 of Bound in Violet Ink

My fingers brush the hilt of the dagger I brought with me—just in case. My hand lingers a breath too long. Kane notices. Of course he does.

But he still doesn’t move.

Heal the bastard. Removing my necklace, I wrap the chain around my hand so the pendant hovers at my palm.

I immediately begin to work, slathering a green-tinted balm that will numb his skin on his wound before hovering the very hand with the pendant over it, concentrating deeply on pulling the poison out as if my hand were a magnet and the toxins a metal.

It will be painful. The pendant presses against my palm rather than dangle—a sign my magic still works, a reminder that there’s something Silas can’t take from me.

The tips of my fingers radiate a pale glow as my ability to heal is enhanced.

Some say that those like me, if trained under magnificent legends, can even bring beating hearts back from the dead as long as it’s been less than a moon’s cycle.

I mostly take care of the superficial things, as that’s all I’ve ever been taught to do—black sludge leaks out, sliding against his skin that’s warm in color, even in here. Slightly darker than my own. Kane stiffens immensely, inhaling deeply through his nostrils.

“What is the pain level?” I ask, breathing deeply to catch the scent of how much this ravages him. I can always smell the damage more than I can see it.

“It’s manageable,” he grinds out.

I reach into my bag to retrieve fresh linen and a jar filled with a thick ointment of bitterroot and fermented myrah, which is used specifically for this affliction. “You stiffened quite a lot for it to be manageable.”

“It’s not from the pain.” A large clot of poison slumps out into my bowl, disintegrating into liquid once my hand, which hovered over to extract it, is no longer pouring magic into it.

“This is no place for you. This—” He stops abruptly, looking around as if this is the most annoying thing he’s encountered lately.

“Someone was coming to heal, to bring me what I needed aside from an antidote. You are not supposed to be here.”

Suddenly, I feel rather vulnerable, small.

I stare at the massive, flat plane of his abdomen where blood and toxin still ooze, aware of how I’d have to crane my head just to look him in the eyes.

“Every second matters, so I’m not going to stop, even if this is no place for me,” I say, purposefully not looking up.

I will prove Silas so wrong that he’ll grovel on his knees.

If I am to die here, it will be because I allow it.

I’m not going back to that fucking castle.

The only movement is his steady breathing. The curious fog my mind found within dissipates, no longer lost in a fantasy of whatever the letters were.

A small shudder escapes when his touch is on me, grabbing the back of my hair to push my head down, swiping away the hair as if he’s looking at something before releasing my hair. My head whips back as if I’m expecting him to strike me, but those stolid eyes remain the same.

Don’t waste time.

Closing my eyes to refocus, I recite a few words until my fingertips tingle with magic while I continue to pull it out of him.

I maintain not looking up at him as I channel my energy to focus on the rot of this poison, feeling its foreign vibrations underneath his skin as I guide it to the torn tissue with the unnatural opening.

I move my hands along him, his wound opening slightly as more black sludge bubbles out.

With my other, I catch it in the same bowl to examine and confirm the poison with a few droplets of various ingredients I brought, inspecting to see if he should require a more complex antidote.

For some reason, as I do this, I need to look up, and when I do…

He’s already intently staring.

Gods does that gaze unwind me. Those silver eyes are like metal, sharp and dangerous.

In this darkness, lit only by a few candles, that face appears even more rugged, with a shadow of facial hair, one that mirrors the scalp of his head.

A scar runs from his jaw to his temple, while another slashes through his eyebrow, his bottom lip scarred just the same.

And from this angle, he appears even more massive.

“This is beyond reckless,” he states, judgment heavy in his gaze. Not angry. Not grateful. Just— watching . Absorbing.

“It’s either this or I get to marry Lord Faust, and I’d rather face this place than belong to him for the rest of my life.” It’s not my particular desire to speak of such drama, the sound of it so meaningless in a purposeless place such as this.

“No, you wouldn’t have,” he replies through steady breaths. “Faust would have been drawn and quartered the moment I got out of here.”

That metallic gaze bores into me like hot iron, and yet it doesn’t feel like a predator sizing up prey. It feels like something dangerous in a different way—like he’s memorizing the shape of my soul. It’s so much that I feel the need to utterly flee.

“Many of those prisoners—” he takes in a sharp breath as another large clot slides out into the bowl “—would risk losing limbs to fuck you until you can’t move. That’s hardly the worst of what they’d do to you.”

I nearly choke on my spit, not ready for such bluntness. “Do you want me to heal you or not?” I quip with an annoyingly high-pitched voice, staring him down as I meet that liquid gaze.

“ Victoria .”

My name on his tongue is so… no. Him using my name shouldn’t have such a powerful command on me.

“ Kane .”

His eyes flash with an intensity that annoyingly frightens me, and I begin to accept that the letters—whatever their purpose—were not an invitation.

Do people even call him by his name? Did I just cross a serious line?

“I have not secured myself here, yet. That was to come with liberation. This is risking your life.”

I don’t know what to do with that statement, or those undertones. I refocus. “Well, Silas ordered me here. I don’t want to go back. At all. So this is what it is.”

“Oh, you’re not going back.”

If the lighting were better, I might be able to understand why I swear his face displays pride, greed, and rage all at once. A part of my mind spins the longer he stares at me, his scent thickens with the masculine stains, and somehow it’s completely comforting.

“Do you know what we are?” he asks.

I hate that my gaze is pulled, no dragged , to his lips, especially the scar that cleaves through. Perhaps magic is at play. Contorting my logic.

“Maybe you can enlighten me,” I defensively reply.

Kane leans down over me, slowly crowding the space between us, his thick thigh now shifted so I’m in between both legs while I remain kneeling.

My hatred for Silas locks me into this position, refusing to back away as it feels like I can’t swallow the knot in my throat. I prepare for so many things to happen…

His breathing mixes with a low, guttural sound that could only be described as a growl, my gaze locked onto his stomach that slightly bleeds from the movement as he speaks from above me.

“I have half a mind to cover you entirely with my scent, so it’s impossible to mistake who has made a claim on you. ”

The words singe my mind like an oil fire.

It’s then that I scramble to my feet, having no idea what to make of that statement. Blood rushes to my feet as I place the wall to my back, reaching for the door handle only to find it’s locked. “Is that the purpose of writing to me? To bring me here and defile me?”

“I tried to stop you,” he begins, making no effort to stand or chase me in this small room. There’s no need, I’m at his utter mercy no matter where I am in here. “It’s my duty to soothe your agitation.” His steel gaze lowers to look over my body. “ All of your agitation… as your mate.”

His words sink into my brain, which sears hot at the revelation. Mate … I press as firmly as possible against the cold wall. “Absolutely not.”

He remains where he’s at, his gaze darkening like a predator that’s confirmed it will have its prey. “Why, little flower?”

I swallow thickly, the dark room like a cage. Pieces of me scream with affirmation, their cries striking harshly against the fear that he’s right .I’m nowhere near prepared for this. “Perhaps I have gone mad.”

He leans forward from his sitting position, the room still smelling of the poison, but it no longer emanates from him—his scent is purely him now.

“You couldn’t stop writing to me because of our connection.

Of the draw. You were desperate, and your soul reached out to the one resource that would do everything in his power to keep you safe.

I told you not to write me, or else fate would seal itself.

And I’m a man who would kill even the innocent to protect what’s his, and your soul knows that. Somewhere in there.”

Because either I am neglected or insane, I indulge in the sensation that those words elicit. It would explain so much, and I can’t stop hearing the scratch marks those words are leaving on my soul—this is my way out.

Stop it . I must be neglected. A fated mate means leaving my current prison to accept the cuffs of another. I’m seriously supposed to bend to the idea that our souls are bound? That fate, some cruel magic, or the gods themselves have decided my worth and handed it over to him?

This is the same painting from Silas, just with different brush strokes…

Kane finally stands, and the shift in energy is immediate.

My nostrils flare when I realize, despite my height, even with every inch of defiance in my spine, he is much larger than me.

Worn boots move over the stone, his scent invading the space around me until there’s nothing else to breathe.

“I know you’re aware of that, somewhere deep down. Why else write to me?”

I don’t answer.

Stand tall, Victoria. This might be some of your last moments. Even if you’re broken, stand for yourself.