Page 15 of Bound in Violet Ink
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 expectingme. 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’rethe 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 hisdaughter?”
“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 andscentingthem. The last two years of obsession might as well have only been a week, and they feel sowasted. 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 hisstillnessthat 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 isdisappointment. 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.Godshe is powerful, even in here. What does he look like when his training is unrestrained?
“Why’re youhere?” His voice is low. Rough. A scrape of sound that isn't amused—it'sknowing. It’s as if the magic eating through his veins is just a passing nuisance. LikeI’mthe 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.
