Page 78 of Broken Ties

I wait until Eliza’s eyes cut away from us both as she picks up her menu before I look over at my Bond.

I’m not sure what I was expecting, but the mask held carefully over her own features sends a shot of ice through my own blood.

In the darkest recesses of my mind, I can’t hide my suspicions that this sudden urge to possess every inch of her and bind her to me no matter what it takes is really just a trauma response to that pit of bones and the dark glee of my bond at the sight of it. The way that, in that moment, there was no hiding the fact that there’s a monster inside of me that saw indescribable death and felt elated. Maybe I can no longer find it within myself to punish my Bond for the crime of leaving me when everything that’s ever been snarled, spat, and whispered about me is actually true? Maybe the villain really is me, and facing that truth means giving her up, so, selfishly, I’m now desperate not to.

With my bond still resting peacefully in my chest, I push that shameful realization aside to figure out exactly what happenedfor my Bond to pull away from me. Whether or not she should do so is something to agonize over later, preferably with a bottomless glass of single malt in my hand and a locked door between me and the world.

The restaurant is noisy, but in that refined way of old money, where no one is speaking loudly or intoxicated and there’s a Julliard-trained pianist playing in the corner and dozens of tables dining on thousand-dollar plates. Conflict and abductions feel a lifetime away from the genteel patrons, as though it’s something discussed and analyzed but not a part of their real lives.

Our table of council members and Bonds are all conversing happily, gossiping and wheedling and cutting remarks disguised with silk bows, totally unaware of the monumental shift within my Bond.

But I’m not.

That mask of ice is calm and beautiful and utterly enraged by something. There are Neuros at the table, but none strong enough to get into her mind, certainly not without my bond noticing and taking control to deal with them.

There’s nothing.

There’s also no way to question her about it, so instead, I do whatever I can to make the rest of the night tolerable for us both. The desire to provide for her, to cater to her every whim and desire, is so deeply ingrained in me that it’s almost impossible to shake. It’s also amusing to watch how indignant she gets when I fill her plate, all while my bond gloats at the act.

I realize it’s my own line in the sand. When Gryphon claimed that using his Gift against her would compromise his values, I wanted to strangle him, but only because it meant there were parts of her that he could claim that I couldn’t, and it grated on me. Now, watching her smile at the snakes that surround us asshe plays the manipulation game on the side of our Bond Group for once, I know exactly what Gryphon meant.

I never wanted to be the type of Bond who disrespected his Central Bond—I honestly never thought it was even a possibility. Yet here I am, without a single positive interaction with the Gifted I’m bound to. Even the instances that I’ve defended her, helped her, manipulated every circumstance around us both for her benefit, still she’s practically snarled back at me.

Feeding her is my line in the sand.

It might dig under her skin, but at the very core of our practices as Gifted, it’s an act of deep respect that I won’t allow myself, or any other, to eat before her—that my very last scrap of life itself would be placed willingly in her hands, regardless of any other.

Whether she likes it or not.

Whether our acting is that good, or the trauma of my warnings are still fresh, I can’t say, but the entire table seems well aware of my expectations. While my bond seethed under my skin until the salmon en papillote was placed in front of her, none of the table dared to lift a fork until she did.

The rest of the meal passes the same—the council all tiptoeing around my Bond as she plays her role perfectly, though with far less input than before, while I spend the entire night in a verbal sparring match with Sharpe and Vittorio to stop them from pulling her back into the conversation.

I’m also baiting them both, making sure they walk themselves into our trap so this entire circus wasn’t for nothing.

When the night is finally over and we walk out of the restaurant together with her arm tucked in mine, there is a slight pause as I deviate from their expectations again by foregoing the cheek-kissing goodbyes to the women and the handshakes to the men. Exactly one councilman attempts to step closer to us bothonly for Eversong to blanch and hastily step back at my dark look of warning.

The dress is stunning on her, and I never want them to see her in it again.

Rafe opens the car door for us both, and as I tuck my Bond into the backseat before me, I lock eyes with Vittorio one last time across the valet line. His eyes are white as he calls on his Gift, but the furrow in his brow has a smirk stretching across my lips as my own eyes void out.

He can’t get into my head.

Apparently my Bond’s mind is also a fortified haven, a curious but very welcome discovery for me. Even if his son leads their entire family to their demise tonight, there are others with the same abilities, and knowing she’s safe from them is a great relief.

I’m distracted by these thoughts as I slide into the car beside my Bond, then by the onslaught of messages from Gryphon, Nox, Gabe, and the rest of the TacTeams in place as Vittorio sends a car after us. Rafe doesn’t miss a beat, driving through the traffic with ease as though it’s business as usual for him.

“I suppose you won’t stop in at the drugstore for a minute so I can run in, will you?”

My Bond’s petulant tone throws me off. It’s clear she hasn’t noticed we’re being tailed right now, but the wall she threw up between us is still holding firm. She won’t even look in my direction, her arms crossed over her chest and her mouth a sullen line.

My response is short and colder than I intend. “We’re not stopping. Tell me what you need, and I’ll have it delivered to your dorm room.”

She huffs and rolls her eyes, the refined and compliant act she was putting on clearly over with. “Why not? I’ll be quick, and with your stupid tracker, it’s not like I can run away.”

My jaw clenches at the confirmation that it’s the only thing stopping her from fleeing, irritation crawling down my spine until I have to physically stop myself from clawing at my skin to dig it out. “We’re not stopping. I already provide for you, why are you being difficult about it now?”

Her cheeks immediately heat as she hisses back to me, “I never asked for your fucking money!”