Page 9 of Bound in Violet Ink

The corridor narrows, stone arching overhead like a closing throat. Iron sconces flicker low with golden flames, casting shadows that crawl and slither along the walls like they know I shouldn’t be here. The further I walk, the more the air thickens. Not just with cold, but with… presence .

I start to feel it before I see them—his people.

Can I sense the Unseelie?

The prison has many cells, some of which are large and dark, with people chained to corners. Then there are those that are isolated, but still held behind iron bars. Some only have doors, and sometimes I even see the cells that are wooden coverings in a hole in the floor.

When we pass a particularly large collection of people who are all living within the same confined space, one of them leans slightly forward, a grin spreading far too slowly across his face.

His teeth are bloodstained, and he sniffs the air.

“She smells like warmth,” he murmurs to no one, to everyone. “That won’t last.”

I don’t flinch. I won’t .

Another one, massive and tattooed, slams a fist against the bars, the metal ringing out like a funeral bell. “Oh, we’ll eat that softness right off your bones.”

The guard that guides me stiffens but keeps walking. And it’s the way none of them seem shocked that gives me deep worry. It feels orchestrated.

Like I’m being escorted as a sacrifice to the altar.

The only thing I can’t control is my rapid breathing, something I hope is well hidden behind a stolid visage.

The only bit of sanity remaining is when we pass a giant archway that reveals the library I’ve heard so many stories of. So far, it’s the only place that’s offered any natural light. Being greeted by the sun after passing through such darkness is, admittedly, a humbling experience.

It doesn’t last for long as we round another corner, the sunlight even more prominent through aged, foggy windows that reveal a massive courtyard where people are training and fighting. “Do those men have better behavior?” I ask, the sunlight almost like protection, giving me a semblance of calm.

“I wouldn’t assume that at all,” the guard says. “The one who offered to eat your flesh had just come in from the courtyard.”

“Oh.”

Okay, so not a single inch of this place is to be trusted.

The narrow tunnels consume us once more until dumping us out into a mezzanine with a large, circular hole in the ceiling for sunlight, a built-in dirty pond below where water drips down.

It’s then that I catch the faintest scent of Kane, so small it’s like passing a vase of fresh flowers, but I’m not sure where it comes from.

On the lower level exists multiple hallways, and it’s when we approach one in particular that we’re finally met with the greeting of another fae with short hair and a scar so deep it looks like a stone carver missed and gouged a chunk out.

His eyes widen, just for a breath, as they meet mine.

Probably wasn’t expecting me . Every bit of my bones screams so loudly that I need to get out of here, and yet, when I glance over my shoulder, some of the prisoners are watching.

And the duskborn now stand in the entry that we used to get here.

Oh, I don’t like this. I don’t like the sensation of being forced in here.

Prison .

“ You’re the healer they sent?” His voice is all gravel and disbelief. Not mocking, but close. “I thought…” he looks at the guard that guided me. “I thought when some spotted the High Lord’s ship with a healing flag it was a rumor.”

“Turns out to be true,” the guard replies.

“He sent his daughter ?”

“Adopted,” I clarify, although the glare from both men makes me think that’s not politically relevant. “He wants me to heal Kane.” I manage out. “As an offering of good faith, I believe.”

I owe Silas no loyalty here, but I’m not admitting I’m being sent here as punishment.

Both men laugh, the corners of their mouths stretching up before shaking their heads. “What kind of good faith matters in this shit hole?”

My body hollows out, although this isn’t entirely too unfamiliar. I’ve been laughed at before by Silas’s men. “Do you want him healed or not?” I press.

The man looks me over again, more carefully this time.

Not like he’s assessing strength, but potential collateral.

Concern flickers in his eyes, followed quickly by hesitation—and something else.

Pity, maybe. Or regret. Until the guard that guided us loses patience and grabs my shoulder to shove me forward.

I nearly stumble, and do my best to catch my composure. The scarred man says, “He has been poisoned. A blade was used that had been laced with black magic, something to slow the spread to make it worse.”

“There’s not a single healer here?” I ask.

“No.” There’s no explanation needed.

Well, so far, it seems like Silas really has just sent me to the Carrows.

Which means the next interaction with Kane will likely seal my fate.

The hallway isn’t long, and leads to a singular door where the man nods to it as if to apologize for my fate.

I breathe slowly, my hand slightly shaking as I grip the door handle.

The scent of Kane is so strong I hesitate, just standing there like a statue, my satchel sliding forward so I have to catch it.

I’m so fucking nervous to be alone with him. Especially after the stupid letters and scenting them. The last two years of obsession might as well have only been a week, and they feel so wasted . All culminating to now, and I know this won’t be pretty.

Get this over with.

When I open the door and step inside, the door shuts behind me with the finality of a grave.

Iron grinding against iron in a locking mechanism that nearly vibrates in my teeth.

If I weren’t so distracted by the massive man on the cot, I’d pay more attention to how dramatically my chest rises and falls.

Muscle is corded tight under torn skin, his torso barely covered with ragged edges of what used to be a shirt. Blood is crusted around a long, jagged wound on his stomach that pulses with something too dark to be just an infection.

But it’s his stillness that makes it worse.

He’s not unconscious.

He’s waiting.

The room reeks of him in fantastic ways. There’s also an undertone of power, something that Silas resonates: a High Lord . His hard, steel eyes are wide, burning right through me as he slowly inhales.

Even in pain, even drugged, there's a tension to his body like a beast at the edge of lashing out. Kane grimaces when he tries to rise, placing a hand on his gut where his blood reeks of poison. “Why’re you here?” he manages out, his grumbling voice sending shivers down my back.

His broad jaw is so tight he looks like he may bite—and yet, there’s the smallest part of me that is wholly unafraid.

A dark, magnetic pull wraps around my spine and tugs, something entirely ancient. The kind of scent that lives in old instincts. I don’t even know what that means, but it’s what I feel.

To my greatest surprise, the primary emotion I feel is disappointment .

Everything about his body language reeks of frustration, rather than intrigue.

It reminds me that not long ago, that ruthless gaze had just witnessed the murder of many, caused by his very own hands.

Some of the blood smeared on him might not even be his.

Broad, veined hands move to position himself, the muscles from his lower stomach to his shoulders all moving and flexing. Gods he is powerful, even in here. What does he look like when his training is unrestrained?

“Why’re you here ?” His voice is low. Rough. A scrape of sound that isn't amused—it's knowing . It’s as if the magic eating through his veins is just a passing nuisance. Like I’m the one in danger.

And maybe I am.

No, I definitely am. I can’t even smell the guard anymore. They left me here. “I’m a healer, if you didn’t know.” My voice sounds too sure, too sharp—like something brittle trying to hold its shape under weight.

I fidget with my bag as I place it on the floor, gathering a few supplies when I refuse to let him get to me. Out of my peripheral, I notice that when he’s not boring his gaze into me, he’s watching the door, as if ready to barricade it.

All the while, the chill of this place clings to my skin.

Even though I have a task at hand, it feels as if there are leagues between us in this rather small room.

“I know this is all odd, considering that Silas imprisoned you. But he loathes me and wants me broken for Faust. To be frank, healing you would bring me great joy just to make Silas angry. So I will do so to my best capability.”

His lips twitch—like a man trying not to sneer. Or speak. Or growl. His broad shoulders are hunched slightly as if he’ll spring into action.

Duty and obligation push me forward, while self-preservation whispers words of caution. “I’ll begin to heal you, then.”

My own voice sounds far away. I don’t wait for permission. There isn’t any, not really. What other options are there? I’m imprisoned in my own rights with Silas, so it’s not as if happiness will appear on its own. Leaving him will require incredible sacrifice.

But perhaps, for now, I can be of use to Kane. Even just as a healer. Even if that’s all I’ll ever be.

I eye his stomach once more as I near him. Bright red blood now oozes with the black toxins polluting him. “I am going to heal the wounds. This may take a while.”

He doesn’t answer. Just stares . I kneel to examine where he was stabbed in the stomach, reaching into my canvas bag to acquire the necessary bandages, ointments, and a bowl.

When I glance up, his gaze is pinned on me—unblinking, unreadable.

Like he’s trying to memorize the shape of me in case I vanish. Or betray him.

Of course, I lower my gaze immediately. I have absolutely no idea how to read this man. The silence grows as our tension thickens, and for a moment, I feel like an idiot as I swear Silas’s words are about to ring true.