Page 6 of Bound in Violet Ink

Sheets soaked in sweat are what I awake to that morning, the fabric cooling when I reposition myself.

Sitting up to pull back the hair from my face, my hearth barely kindles to let in any light. Once on my feet, my night sweats mean nothing to me as I begin to freeze, wrapping my shivering body with a wool blanket as I stoke the fire.

It’s my damn heat . It’s been a week since I wrote Kane, and it’s as if smelling his damn parchment made my body ignite. I told Ginger no one is to come near me, especially nothing from the Carrows. Not while like this.

The only blessing is that Silas stays so far away from me when this happens that it’s like he never existed. It’s just me and my shadow in here, with Ginger periodically making cold baths for my body to rest in. Riding out a heat alone is one of the cruelest jokes.

My gaze flits to my desk, knowing his letter is there.

Yesterday was the first reprieve, and my anticipation for his words couldn’t handle any more delay, especially when Ginger informed me that Kane wrote almost immediately.

It did something to my soul to hear that, which unnerves me.

It’s why I didn’t read it right away. I still haven’t.

It’s just sitting on my desk, waiting to continue our conversation.

This night sweat is much less than the previous night, so I know by tomorrow I should feel closer to normal. It couldn’t hurt to look now, right?

After adding another log onto the fire, I stare at the open letter I refused to look at as if the very act will take me away from here, like I’m terrified it will stop existing. What is it like to live outside the confines of Silas? To stoke a fire within walls much different than here?

To be free?

At least freer than I currently am… to find someone to ride out these heats with. To choose someone. Or no one. Maybe with each heat I’ll fuck a different man.

Kane is using me, that’s undeniable, but I can use him. I can try to dissect his words so I can manipulate him to let me out of here. I can serve as a healer, or anything .

My only hesitation as I stare at the piece of parchment is that its stagnation is one of the most comfortable things I’ve experienced in so very long, the pause in our communication waiting on me to write him back, instead of obsessing over when his reply will come.

I remind myself how grateful I need to be for this. At any moment, Silas could become aware. Waiting too long could ruin this small connection to the outside world.

Fuck it. I’ll give Kane all of Silas’s information if it gets me out of here. He can use me if I can use him for freedom. The unwritten unfolding of events only comforts me because I don’t yet have to face failure, but I also must face reality. It’s the only way out.

Once I pick it up, I hurriedly move next to the barely breathing fire for light, and I can’t stop myself from immediately consuming his words:

Victoria,

That is not an unintelligible answer, but unfortunately, wrong. What I want from you is entirely selfish, I admit. So selfish, that I fear it too much for you. And yet, you cannot escape it, I do not think. You have been hidden from yourself for far too long, little flower.

What do you do in the castle all day? What men currently court you?

Kane

He signed his name.

Him .

And… entirely selfish? What does that mean?

It’s as if I’m reading it like it’s our first communication all over again.

My body seems to forget how to function as everything is out of rhythm, especially as I bring the parchment to my nose and close my eyes when I smell him .

What is happening to me? Why does this scent bring me a comfort that I never knew I craved?

Is it my fading heat? Does it recognize the scent of a powerful fae?

I put the letter down to bring clarity to mind, but I know I will pick it up to read it once more.

Perhaps a hundred times, and each encounter will feel like the first.

What selfish motive of his? Isn’t wanting Silas’s information selfish? Too much of me? Does he not realize I’d give him the clothes off of Silas’s back?

And yet, just when I think it will take me an entire day to formulate a reply, I find myself finishing it within only an hour, still by the fading firelight. Because I’m lonely, and bored. And needy. I wrap the letter in the nightgown I wore so it will be covered in me.

My heat.

I pause as I stare at what I penned him, almost disturbed at my action. The hells am I doing? He’ll know it’s my heat. He’ll think I’m absolutely insane. But I am, so what of it?

I’ve always had a reckless side, but this feels manic.

Some part of my mind registers that we are sending each other our scents, and that doing this might enrage him, even if I can’t figure out why. Which means I absolutely commit to it, because someone at some point will get so mad at me they’ll break these walls to get rid of me.

And everything in my bones screams to do so.