Page 48 of Bound to the Dorm Elf
I let the quiet stretch between us until it’s taut, then say, “In Protheka, there was no quiet like this.”
Her head turns slightly, but she doesn’t interrupt, which is… unexpected.
“It’s never just the wind there,” I continue. “Always footsteps in the corridors. Whispers behind doors. The sound of ink scratching over parchment as someone drafts the accusation that will end you.”
Her voice is soft when she asks, “Was it really that bad?”
I meet her gaze, the lake light breaking in her eyes. “Worse. Every victory drew a knife closer to your back. Every ally came with a debt — and every debt was a chain. You learned quickly that the only safety was in being more dangerous than the one next to you.”
“That’s…” she trails off, shaking her head. “Exhausting.”
“It was survival.”
She studies me, and I can see her fitting pieces together in her mind, trying to understand the shape of a place she’s never seen.
I look back at the water, my voice lower now. “When the exile came, I thought it was the end. I’d been stripped of title, stripped of land. I expected to die within a week.” I glance at her. “Instead, I breathed. I…I wasn’t looking over my shoulder every hour. No one was sharpening their teeth for me.”
Skylar lets out a slow breath, and in it I hear something like pity — which I don’t want — but also understanding.
“So, what, you’re saying Earth is better?” she asks carefully.
“It is quieter,” I admit. “And quieter is… dangerous in its own way. It makes you think about things you never had the time to before.”
Her lips twitch into something like a smile. “Like what?”
I consider lying, or brushing it off, but the truth slips through before I can stop it. “Like whether I’d ever go back if I could.”
The moonlight catches on her hair as she tilts her head toward me. “And?”
I let the answer hang, feeling the night press in around us. “And I don’t know anymore.”
The silence that follows is not empty. It’s heavy. Full of things neither of us are ready to say.
Skylar’s breath clouds faintly in the cold, and for a heartbeat, I think she might step closer. Instead, she nudges a small rock with her toe, sending it skittering into the water. The ripple spreads across our reflections until they blur together.
Somewhere behind us, a night bird calls. The wind lifts, carrying the scent of the lake and the faint trace of her shampoo — something warm, almost spiced, that cuts through the cold air.
For once, I don’t feel the need to speak.
For once, she doesn’t try to fill the silence.
The brushof her hand against mine is so light it could almost be an accident—almost.
But I’ve fought too many battles, read too many microexpressions in war councils, to mistake it for anything other than deliberate. The warmth of her skin bleeds into mine, impossibly soft against the hard lines of my palm, and it does something to me I am not prepared for.
I turn toward her fully. The lake’s reflection catches in her eyes, twin shards of light in the darkness. She doesn’t look away.
I can hear her heartbeat—fast, unsteady—over the faint slap of water against the stones. My own pulse keeps pace, a slow, deliberate drum in my chest.
I lift a hand, cupping her jaw with fingers that have held swords, crushed throats, and drawn blood. Her skin is warm beneath my palm, her breath ghosting over my knuckles. There’s a flicker in her expression—hesitation, maybe, or anticipation—but she doesn’t move back.
“Skylar,” I say her name low, tasting it in my mouth like something rare.
She swallows, the motion pressing against my hand. “Yeah?”
For a moment, I just look at her. Searching. Weighing. In my world, choices like this can change the course of kingdoms. Here, it feels no less dangerous.
Then I close the last inch between us.
