Page 40 of Bound to the Dorm Elf
And every single time, I feel that little jolt low in my stomach. The one that whispers this is a bad idea and in the same breath saysdo it anyway.
I tell myself it’s just proximity. We’re stuck together right now. Of course I’m noticing him more. It’s just a temporary side effect.
But when we’re heading back toward the dorm and the evening air gets colder, he drapes his jacket — heavy, warm, smelling faintly of leather and something sharper underneath — over my shoulders without a word… yeah, it’s not just proximity anymore.
It’s addictive.
And that’s a problem.
CHAPTER 15
ROVAX
The dorm is too warm for my liking. The air in here sits heavy, recycled through whatever strange humming machinery hides behind the walls. But I’ve learned to tolerate it.
What I haven’t learned to tolerate is the way my skin itches when blood dries against it. The cut on my side is shallow — nothing more than a scrape from an unfriendly branch during training in the woods — but it needs cleaning before it seals wrong.
So, while Skylar sits cross-legged on her bed with that glowing device balanced on her knees, tapping away at whatever task consumes her attention, I pull my shirt over my head.
The air bites at my bare skin. Not cold — just different. Exposed.
The movement catches her attention. She looks up.
And freezes.
Her gaze locks on my torso, but it’s not the muscle or the scar patterns she’s staring at. It’s the runes.
They climb from my hip to my ribs, curling around to trace my spine and shoulder, etched deep into the black of my skin.Silver-pale in this light, faintly luminescent, they breathe with me — expanding and contracting with each inhale.
“You…” She blinks, her voice low but unsteady. “I haven’t… I mean, not since that night. I didn’t see them this clearly.”
I glance down, then back at her. “You’ve seen them before.”
“In the dark. In the rain. When you were… bleeding everywhere,” she says, her mouth twitching like she can’t decide whether to frown or smirk. “But now—” Her eyes follow one sweeping curve from my ribs to my chest. “They’re beautiful.”
I don’t flinch at the word, but it lands heavier than I expect. Beauty is not why these marks exist.
“They are functional,” I say, stepping to the desk where I’ve left a strip of cloth and a small metal basin she calls a ‘mixing bowl.’ “Nothing more.”
She tilts her head, still staring. “Functional for what?”
I dip the cloth in water from her strange plastic bottle, wringing it out. The cut on my side stings as I press the damp fabric to it, and for a moment, I don’t answer.
It would be easy to dismiss her question. I’ve done so before. But her voice carries that edge — curiosity without greed — and against my better judgment, I find myself speaking.
“They are conduits,” I say finally. “Anchors for the flow of power granted by my family’s patron deity.”
She blinks, setting the device aside. “Patron deity… like a god?”
“A god,” I confirm. “One of the oldest. The runes mark me as bound to Her. Every strike I deal, every shield I raise in battle… the force behind it flows through these channels.”
Her eyes flicker over the lines again, slower now, like she’s tracing the meaning in them. “So they’re like… magic wiring?”
The corner of my mouth curves despite myself. “If that helps you understand, yes. Though wires do not scream in your bones when you channel too much at once.”
Her face scrunches. “That sounds… unpleasant.”
“It is,” I say, matter-of-fact. “But strength is never given freely. There is always a cost.”
