Page 2 of Bound in Violet Ink

The leaking drip of the storm breaches our stone walls.

It will be time to leave soon. Gather the collected followers and liberate those improperly sent to live on this island.

It’s the way with any damn dynasty—they grow too large and the first time true opposition approaches, paranoia grips their hearts like a fucking vice until cells overflow with the souls of the damned.

Souls I can reap .

Chaos always brings an opening for opportunity. Many will gladly join my side who are stuck here, and then it will be time to return to my court and fortify before the change occurs.

The Seelie will be culled. Those here will see to it. My freedom this time will unhinge the High Lord of these lands. Her adoptive father.

I grind my teeth.

They imprisoned her, too.

The metal chalice in my hands, one I stole from another when I first arrived, nearly bends as I stare blankly at the wall ahead. The thought of her inside those walls, being sent to marry herself to another—something they will force soon—given the need to solidify alliances…

Keeping her from my mind is proving to be more challenging than stomaching the gruel they call food here. And yet I have to consider her. The ramifications. How can I allow her to rot away in that tower like a forgotten delicacy?

My gaze focuses on the rows of bookshelves that surround me, old and broken in many places. She’s a distraction when I should be honing my mind and searching for the answers we need in this fucking monstrosity of a library.

It doesn’t change that I’m a slave to waiting for her letter to appear, should she have ignored my words?—

My breathing stills when Osman enters my vision, the sound of stiff wheels echoing against the slate floor as he begins his task of returning books to their shelves.

The Carrows is vast and houses upward to five thousand prisoners, rotating the libraries between each wing.

Because the powerful and rich tend to search for vicious members within these walls, they permit learning and training of the body; a prison encampment designed to grind out the weak so the strong may be chosen.

Freedom from here is earned through being bought to serve on an agreed-upon task.

If I were to be bought now, then the duskborn bred and born to serve these halls would hunt me down until they could drag me back.

Although not me … I could leave if I so wanted.

But I’m in here for a reason.

And while I have many of my own men with me here, we keep separated. Independent. I’ve made it clear that we act truly imprisoned until it is time?—

I smell a female approaching.

Human.

Glancing her way, she keeps her dirtied head down and sits across the table, strands of brown hair parting in clumps from lack of washing.

“You’re Kane…”

Only silence answers her.

She fidgets, dirty fingers with grime-filled nails touching each other as she keeps her gaze down. “Please. I’ve been waiting for you to appear at this hour for over a week. I’m willing to offer my body in return for your protection. Especially if the rumors are true...”

There are many things one can say. I see the sad situation for what it is, but she isn’t speaking to a savior of a benevolent kind.

I’ve lived through atrocities that have numbed me to the pains of this world.

Survival within the wastes that the Unseelie have been forced to live within has evolved us into something ruthless.

I’m here to reclaim our fucking throne, not save everyone.

“No.”

I also don’t appreciate her speaking openly of the rumors that I do plan to escape. The guards of the Carrows were easy enough to sway once I knew what to offer…

Her breathing quickens, and I know speaking a word to her is only inviting further noise. “One of your men, then.”

“We don’t openly use bodies as payments. Flesh becomes addicted to flesh too easily, and loyalties are swiftly corrupted.”

Her cracked lips wordlessly open, wiping the greasy hair out of her face that may have once been pleasant to look at.

“Please, I thought—I thought surely … I mean, thank you , for answering me, first of all. I don’t want to appear ungrateful—I just don’t trust the others… you don’t hurt the innocent.”

Facing ahead to watch Osman, I ignore the woman. The change will ravage the lands, and this prisoner; feeling pity for all is a waste of focus. Just because I don’t target the innocent doesn’t mean I’m their monolith, either.

“Then train me, or something.” She offers in my peripheral, leaning closer, the table slightly moving. “You have women among your group as soldiers. I can learn.”

Continued silence from me.

If she truly wants to offer herself, she’ll know Freya recruits the females.

Small, desperate sounds escape the woman as if one of them will morph into words that might sway me.

She clearly must know of me, because she sighs and leaves with a scoot of her chair, her shadow moving as she passes a torch.

If I avert my attention and ignore who is speaking to me, it means leave me the fuck alone.

That woman may be useful, but what she clearly hasn’t grasped is that I do not trust offerings of loyalty.

That is earned by bleeding for it, and even then, I know the hearts of mortals are fickle.

Her efforts also unfortunately come at a poor time for her, as I cannot pull my attention away from listening for the wheels of the book cart.

They’re advancing on the appropriate aisle.

I watch as Osman nears me, his once sun-kissed skin is exceptionally pale—a sign we’ve been here for far too long. He avoids eye contact.

The surge of curiosity that floods me pisses me off.

This is idiotic.

Indulging in any of this is disastrous.

Osman knows to stay away except for when he brings a letter from her . A slave to whatever hypnotizes me, to the promise of what it could be… to thinking about how they have the audacity to leave her high and away from the world.

My blood heats at the idea of them giving her to any man, which they will be forced to do if they want to strengthen their already weak unions.

It’s that thought that brings me to my feet, staring at each book that Osman carries, wondering where her letter is.

The letter that belongs to me; the scent of it that is mine to claim.

Osman slides another book onto the shelf, but upside down.

A hundred thoughts flow through as I stare at the binding, possessed with the need to possess her .

To claim her before the others do, to liberate her and offer whatever she needs to truly taste freedom, like she is a special plant I’m careful to cultivate.

As there will be no freedom from me .

It simply will not work that way, and I know it. Any action on my end to take her from that castle will push me to stalk her shadows.

Osman’s short hair has reached the half-inch length it usually does before he shaves it off; a ritual I perform every few days for myself. His voice is bleak and without emotion as he mutters, “I’ll return at dawn.”

Without another interaction, the man wheels his books to another shelf.

Turning my head to stare at the upside-down, worn spine with her letter inside, my mind is pulled in so many directions. We have a purpose here, a goal to liberate half of those within, enlisting them. And here I am, ignoring duty. Obsessing.

No, she is another kind of duty. But she cannot free herself of me if I shorten any distance toward her. Is that even fair?

I run my finger along the spine, my skin calloused against the smooth leather. Grit lines around and underneath my nailbed, the black ink of tattoos on my forearm blending in with the grime.

Removing the book, I grip it tightly. To send a letter back, I place one in this very book, and Osman will reclaim it.

With my gaze ahead and surveying, I slowly hold the pages to my nose, first greeted by the scent of parchment and leather. Her scent is incredibly trace, but there .

I’m suddenly infuriated that she is indulging.

What is she doing? Is she always this reckless? I’m not a kind, or gentle, man. I will ravage her, my instincts impossible to tame. Her softness is a divine reprieve, an escape I have yearned for but no woman has assuaged. A prize I’ve earned for the sacrifices I’ve made for my people.

Is the princess who wastes away in a tower aware of who she is? Of what fate will demand from us?

I breathe slowly with the intent to home in on her. My blood warms with a primal obligation. Her scent is like blood in the air, and I’m a starving beast.

I won’t be able to back away now.

Within the confines of my cell, I lay the book on the only table—almost a little too rushed—and flip through the pages until they stop…

I stare at the letter with a violet wax seal of a V, my chest rising and falling to a rapid rhythm, aware of the complexities that are slowly untying. My instincts purr to release the discipline that’s honed me, desiring to indulge in what’s mine .

My dirtied hand smears dark stains on the cream parchment of her envelope, making me wonder if all she’s ever known has been a clean, uncomplicated world.

Victoria’s tower has held her back from the violence that molded me.

My court would permanently alter her life and all she knows.

Corrupt her ignorance. The souls that follow me have no decorum.

My breathing deepens when I open the envelope, staring at her handwriting etched in more violet—the only color I’ve seen in years, outside of the books.

She has a tendency to accentuate the curves of f and h, and the basal voice within tells me that I can protect her from our damaged reality.

Her heart will break as she sees the suffering of many, and then she will return to our den where I will fuck her until she forgets the rest…

until she’s drenched in my scent, and that will comfort her. I will comfort her.

I re-read a section:

“I don’t even understand why writing to you would seal any kind of fate.

But you’re right, nonetheless.

This is probably pointless.”

She has no idea, does she?

I must burn the letter and all traces of it—breaking my better judgement, I smell the parchment itself before even realizing it, like an animal that knows its dinner will be removed before it can sink its teeth in.

There are traces of her, deeper, and hinting at her true scent.

My fingers dent the parchment.

Everything deepens. Instincts that could eviscerate those who would dare get too close.

Maul any man who touches her with greed.

They may look, as anyone would desire her.

Only my scent will physically keep them at bay.

Does she even know what she is? Who she is?

How far do I have to unravel her before she can properly put herself back together after all that’s been inflicted on her? What damage will that do?

The damage doesn’t matter if her mate soothes her…

Those instincts grab my heart with a vice grip, telling me who I am to her. What I owe her. How she is lost and reaching out to me, even if she doesn’t understand why.

Nearing the only window in my cell, I stare out at the raging, frigid sea, thinking of her. Of what it might feel like to claim her completely .

She will reek of her mate.

She is reaching out to me, and doesn’t understand why…

It’s the thought of her distress, and seeking out my help in such vulnerability, that makes me write to her again. After penning my reply next to a singular candle, I run the closed parchment along my neck.

She will want the scent.