Page 6 of Bound in Violet Ink
My breathing deepens when I open the envelope, staring at her handwriting etched in more violet—the only color I’ve seen in years, outside of the books. She has a tendency to accentuate the curves offandh,and the basal voice within tells me that I can protect her from our damaged reality. Her heart will break as she sees the suffering of many, and then she will return to our den where I will fuck her until she forgets the rest… until she’s drenched in my scent, and that will comfort her.Iwill comfort her.
I re-read a section:
“I don’t even understand why writing to you would seal any kind of fate.
But you’re right, nonetheless.
This is probably pointless.”
She has no idea, does she?
I must burn the letter and all traces of it—breaking my better judgement, I smell the parchmentitselfbefore even realizing it, like an animal that knows its dinner will be removed before it can sink its teeth in.
There are traces of her, deeper, and hinting at hertruescent.
My fingers dent the parchment.
Everything deepens. Instincts that could eviscerate those who would dare get too close. Maul any man who touches her with greed. They may look, asanyonewould desire her. Only my scent will physically keep them at bay. Does she even know what she is?Whoshe is? How far do I have to unravel her before she can properly put herself back together after all that’s been inflicted on her? What damage will that do?
The damage doesn’t matter if her mate soothes her…
Those instincts grab my heart with a vice grip, telling me who I am to her. What I owe her. How she is lost and reaching out to me, even if she doesn’t understand why.
Nearing the only window in my cell, I stare out at the raging, frigid sea, thinking of her. Of what it might feel like to claim hercompletely.
She willreekof her mate.
She is reaching out to me, and doesn’t understand why…
It’s the thought of her distress, and seeking out my help in such vulnerability, that makes me write to her again. After penning my reply next to a singular candle, I run the closed parchment along my neck.
She will want the scent.
The anticipationof his reply haunts me in ways that have me questioning whether I should bother reading the letter if he writes again.This is no longer something rebellious to piss off Silas, the man who claims he has a right to me since he took me in all those years ago.
I’mobsessing.
As I pace in my towered room, the one that’s simultaneously my escape and my confinement, I step on the hem of the simple blue dress that my lady’s maid helped put on. Staring at thefabric, I’m lost in a sea of decisions that thrash against my identity crisis. But I also feel pretty in this mockery of an outfit, and I hate myself for it. Ialwayshave.
Isthatwhy I like writing to Kane? Because it will make Silas angry? That seems so inelegantly simple. I’ve lived through many seasons of emotions and revelations… surely I am beyond such behavior?
A knock comes to the door, and I jerk my head up.
“My lady, it’s Ginger,” says a muffled voice through the door.
“Come in,” I reply with a clipped tone.
My lady’s maid enters, her black hair tightly wound in a bun so perfect, there’s not a single rogue strand. I’ve known her for nearly five years now, her fingers masterful at fixing any and all fabrics. She bows her head. “The High Lord requests you.”
The annoyance at his request grinds against me differently while I’m on edge, waiting for Kane’s reply. “What is this about?”
“He didn’t say, my lady.”
Sighing through flared nostrils, I know hissummonscan’t be avoided. “Yes, fine.”
Ginger’s soft green eyes smile at me; she takes pity on the situation I find myself in. Genuine sympathy, too. So many in this castle take issue with my attitude, as if I’m a pet that needs to behave. But Ginger understands.
I still feel like a woman who has yet to experience her first bleed. No agency. Treated delicately. Despite my ability to endure, to be beaten and forced to heal myself. Over and over.
