Page 16 of Chains of Love

"Beauty?" She scoffs. "What, because she's so tall and perfect with her massive-" She cuts herself off, cheeks flushing.

"Her massive what?" I grin. "Please, do finish that thought. I'm fascinated by your detailed observations of our hostess."

She crosses her arms over her own chest, cheeks reddening in the most amusing way.

"Well, if you're so concerned about Serra's... assets," I lean forward, enjoying the way Lirien's magic crackles through our bond, "maybe you should take notes. Might help you understand why men actually look twice at some women."

Her fingers curl into the bedsheets. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Come now, little Purna." The words flow like poison honey. "All that power, yet you hide behind those shapeless robes. At least Serra knows how to present herself. Though I suppose when you've got nothing to present-"

The bond explodes with hurt - raw and deep - before I can finish. Lirien's face goes white, then red. She crosses the space between us in two strides, and warm spittle hits my cheek.

The door slams behind her retreating form.

I wipe my face, the sudden silence deafening. Our connection is plagued with emotions I can't quite name - shame, rage, and something else, something that makes my chest ache. When had our usual verbal sparring turned so sharp? The memory of her expression - not anger, but genuine pain - sits uncomfortably in my gut.

For the first time since she bound me, I find myself wishing I could take words back.

I rub my chest, the dull ache beneath my sternum refusing to subside. The bond pulses like a second heartbeat, each throb carrying echoes of hurt that aren't mine. Or perhaps they are - this cursed magic makes it impossible to tell where her emotions end and mine begin.

"Ridiculous," I mutter, spreading the thin blanket across the wooden floor. "I should be celebrating in the halls of the Miou right now, not playing nursemaid to a human's wounded pride."

The words ring hollow even as I say them. The image of her face - not the usual flash of anger I've grown accustomed to, butgenuine pain - keeps surfacing in my mind. My throat tightens, a physical reminder of what I already know: I went too far.

I arrange the pillow, though sleep feels impossibly distant. The ceiling above holds no answers, just rough-hewn beams that blur as I stare. Minutes stretch into hours.

My fingers trace the edge of the blanket. "Come back so I can sleep, you stubborn female," I whisper to the empty room. But she doesn't.

The guilt sits heavy in my stomach, made worse by the knowledge that I meant to wound. We trade barbs daily, but this was different. This was cruel for cruelty's sake, and beneath me. Even a bound dark elf should have more honor than that.

Still, she doesn't return.

9

DARAK

The floorboards creak under my feet as I step into the common room. My night vision picks up the dim shapes of furniture, the dying embers casting an orange glow across the space.

"Lirien?" I whisper, hoping to find her curled up in one of the chairs.

"She's not here."

I spin toward the voice, cursing inwardly at my lack of awareness. Serra sits in the shadows by the window, moonlight outlining her silhouette. A century of combat experience, and I failed to notice her presence. The binding must be affecting my senses more than I realized.

"I should have sensed you," I admit, running a hand through my hair.

"You seemed distracted." Serra shifts in her chair, the wood groaning softly. "She went down to the lake about an hour ago."

"In the dark?"

"The moon's full tonight. And she seemed... upset." A pause. "You know, for someone who's lived over a century, you are remarkably dense about women's feelings."

"I was just teasing her."

"Were you?" Serra's voice carries a hint of knowing that makes me uncomfortable. "Because from where I sat during dinner, it looked like you were deliberately trying to get a rise out of her. And succeeding."

The ember's glow catches Serra's raised eyebrow. She's right, of course. I had enjoyed watching Lirien's composure crack, revealing something raw underneath her usual calculated demeanor. But the spitting – that wasn't the reaction I'd expected.

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