Page 71 of The Bond That Burns

I’d thought claiming her blood would bring things to a head, give me control over her—but also over myself. Instead, it had only turned me into a tangled mess of emotions.

“What if this bond isn’t even real?” That’s what she’d said to me in the common room the other night. Which meant she believed it wasn’t.

I felt my heart harden. Visha was right. If I didn’t stop spiraling, I’d lose everything. Pendragon, my house, my dignity.

There had to be some middle way through this.

Because if Pendragon thought I was going to come crawling on my knees to beg her forgiveness, she had another thing coming.

CHAPTER 17 - MEDRA

It was feeding time.

I made my way to Blake’s room. I really didn’t want to look at his face again that day. But I had no choice. We had a deal and tonight was our scheduled “feeding session.”

But this evening I also had plans to head to the library. So I’d decided the sooner the better. I figured he wouldn’t mind moving things up if it meant he got his blood meal a little earlier.

Now I stood in front of his door and raised my hand to knock.

But as soon as my knuckles brushed the surface of the wood, the door creaked open slightly. The latch must not have caught all the way when he’d closed it.

I hesitated. Blake didn’t make mistakes. He’d probably stepped out and hadn’t bothered to close the door behind him properly because he knew he’d be back in a moment. And who would dare go into the House Leader’s room without permission?

The smart thing for me to do would have been to go sit in the common room and wait. Or leave. Definitely leave.

Instead, I pushed the door open slowly and stepped inside.

The room was dark except for a single lamp burning on a wide oak desk in one corner.

Blake’s scent was everywhere, infusing the room. Both musky and masculine, light and fresh. I caught sight of a green apple on his bedside table and rolled my eyes. Maybe he rubbed themall over his body before he left for class every day. Whatever his secret, the smell wasn’t exactly off-putting. Rather the opposite.

The room was neat, almost surprisingly so. Most boys’ rooms I’d been in were a disgusting mess. But Blake’s four-poster bed had been made perfectly, neater than mine, the deep crimson duvet cover smooth and unwrinkled. His papers and books were in orderly stacks on the desk over in the corner.

The only sign of disarray was a white linen shirt and pair of black trousers that had been tossed carelessly over the back of an armchair.

That should have been my first hint.

“Blake?” I called softly. No answer.

I knew I should leave. This was his personal space and I doubted he’d take kindly to finding me there.

Then I heard it. The faint sound of running water.

The bathroom.

Blake hadn’t stepped out. He was taking a bath.

Common sense screamed at me to turn around and leave. But my traitorous feet carried me straight toward the sound.

I approached the bathroom door slowly. It was cracked just enough for me to peek inside if I wanted to.

Before I could stop myself, I’d leaned forward.

And there he was. In all his glory.

Blake sat on the edge of a massive, tiled tub, his back against the wall. His head was tilted upwards just a little, giving him a swaggering, roguish appearance.

My mouth went dry. He must have just stepped out of the bath. The fluffy white towel he’d used to partially dry himself lay discarded on the floor.

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