EVER BOUND

TWELVE

Thea stared at the thick door as it groaned shut, the iron latch echoing through the stone chamber like a final sentence passed.

Silas didn't look back.

His boots had barely vanished up the narrow stairwell before the lock slid into place, sealing her inside with nothing but stone, steel, and the flicker of dying torchlight. For a long moment, she didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stood there, fists clenched at her sides, staring at the door like it might suddenly swing open and reveal a man who'd changed his mind.

He didn't.

The silence grew heavy, pressing in on her chest like a vice. She turned slowly, her boots crunching on loose gravel scattered across the stone floor. The air was cold down here—cooler than the rest of the manor—and it clung to her skin like breath held too long.

The room was large, rectangular, and windowless. A dungeon by design, though Silas had tried to romanticize it with the word safe room. He'd insisted this was the only place on the estate where her scent and pulse could be fully masked—where the others couldn't track her.

But it didn't feel like protection.

It felt like a prison.

The walls were thick gray stone, lined in places with forgotten weapon racks and rusted sconces. A wooden cot was pushed against one corner with a rough wool blanket folded at its foot, as if that could soften the insult. A small wooden table sat opposite it, its surface warped and scarred by time. Even the light was deceptive—the torches barely pushed back the darkness, casting everything in an amber haze that made the shadows crawl like restless ghosts.

She paced slowly, dragging her fingertips along the wall. The stone was smooth in some places, chipped in others. Old magic, older than her memory, pulsed faintly through the cracks like blood beneath skin. She didn't know how she could sense it—only that she did. As if the dungeon itself was built to bind more than just bodies. As if it could silence what she was becoming.

"Not a prisoner," she whispered to no one, her voice brittle. "Just a precaution."

The words rang hollow. A lie to comfort herself.

She clenched her jaw and turned toward the door again. It was thick, reinforced steel, bolted into the stone. No handle on her side. No keyhole, even. Just a small slot—locked shut—for air or maybe a tray of food if he decided to treat her like an actual captive. Thea stepped up to it and knocked once, the sound deadened by the weight of the door.

No answer.

Not that she expected one.

She pressed her forehead against the cool metal and exhaled. She knew Silas was trying to protect her. That he feared what would come. That he feared her. The look in his eyes the night before hadn't been anger—it had been something far more dangerous.

Desperation. Awe. Maybe even guilt.

But this? This was a violation. No matter his reasons.

She pushed off the door and walked back into the room, arms crossed tight across her chest. Her boots echoed with every step. She sat heavily on the cot, the frame creaking beneath her. A layer of dust puffed up from the blanket, and she coughed, waving a hand.

"Nice," she muttered. "Really rolling out the red carpet."

Her mind spun with too many thoughts. The kiss. The fight. The sudden shift from intimacy to violence. The way Silas had vanished with fury in his eyes, declaring he'd return with an army. And now this. She felt like a problem being shuffled around—not a woman who had just scorched the earth to protect him.

She ran her hands down her thighs, trying to ground herself.

"I'm not a threat," she whispered into the dark. "I'm not..."

But she didn't finish the sentence. Because the truth tasted bitter on her tongue.

She was a threat. To them. To herself. And to Silas, if she ever lost control again.

The thought made her throat tighten, but something else rose alongside it. Not fear. Not shame.

Anger.

Not the rage that had burned through her during the attack. This was something quieter. Colder. It settled in her bones like a vow.

She wouldn't be locked away again.

Not by Silas. Not by fate. Not by whatever curse tethered their lives together.

Thea stood and walked to the center of the room, lifting her chin.

"If you want to keep me in the dark," she said aloud, "then you better pray I never find the light."

The torches flared as if in answer, casting long shadows on the stone. Thea didn't flinch.

It had been hours.

Thea could tell by the way the torchlight had dimmed, the faint traces of ash curling at the edges of the sconces like the last breath of something dying. The temperature had dropped noticeably—cold enough that her fingertips ached if she held them still too long.

She hadn't slept. Couldn't.

Restlessness prowled beneath her skin like a caged animal. Something old. Something aching to be released. It didn't feel like fear anymore. It felt like pressure. Like the walls themselves were shrinking inward, pulsing with every beat of her heart. Faster now. Louder.

She sat hunched on the edge of the cot, elbows braced on her knees, when the lock clicked.

Her head snapped up.

Alys stepped cautiously into view, lantern in hand, casting gold against the damp stone. Her eyes scanned the room until they landed on Thea—wary, hesitant.

"You've not eaten," the girl said gently. "You must be—"

"Let me out."

Alys blinked.

"Miss—"

"I'm not asking." Thea stood now, voice tight with restraint. "I know he told you not to, but I need to get out of here."

"Silas is trying to protect you—"

"Then he should've explained," Thea snapped. "Not locked me in a f*****g cellar like I'm some cursed relic."

She stepped forward, and Alys instinctively backed away. Not in fear—but in recognition. The torches flared again behind Thea's silhouette, catching the sheen of her eyes. Her voice had a low hum to it now—like static on the wind. Like power barely contained.

"Please," she said again, softer now. "I can't stay down here. I feel like I'm burning alive."

Alys hesitated, fingers gripping the key looped at her hip.

Something in Thea shifted—not manipulation, not charm. Just truth. That raw emotion that cracked walls open when reason failed.

Alys finally moved, hands trembling as she turned the key.

"He'll kill me for this," she whispered.

"He won't," Thea murmured, stepping past her. "I'll make sure of it."

She didn't wait for thanks. Didn't wait to hear the door close behind her. The moment her feet hit the upper corridor, she ran. Her boots thundered through the hallways of stone and wood, windless and echoing with the fury in her chest. She didn't know where she was going—only that her body led her.

Toward him.

Toward answers.

The grand doors of the great hall came into view. Wide. Ornate. Carved with crests and faded tapestries on either side. Candlelight flickered underneath, and low voices rumbled from within. She slowed for only a breath, heart racing—not in fear, but fire.

And then she pushed the doors open.

They didn't creak—they boomed, the sound thundering through the chamber like a war drum.

Six men stood in a rough semi-circle near the long dining table. Hardened. Armed. Eyes sharp like blades turned dull by too many kills. At the center—Silas.

He turned at once.

The room fell deathly silent.

Thea stood tall in the threshold, breathing hard, hair wild around her shoulders and boots dusted from the dungeon floor. The firelight licked at her figure like it knew her. Claimed her.

And for the first time—Silas looked genuinely afraid.

"Thea," he said, voice caught between a curse and a plea.

"So this is the welcome committee," she replied coolly, surveying the strangers. "Funny... you told them you didn't know where I was."

The mercenaries looked to Silas as one.

The tension shattered like glass dropped from a great height.

And Thea—still crackling with power she couldn't name—stepped fully into the room, her pulse loud in her ears, and knew: there was no hiding anymore.

~*~

Silas didn't flinch when Thea entered.

He couldn't afford to.

But his mind moved fast—racing through a dozen explanations, none of which would undo what she'd just shattered. The men surrounding him turned in unison, their expressions hardening as if they'd just uncovered the final piece of a puzzle they hadn't even known they were assembling.

Thea stood proud, defiant, radiant even in her fury.

And Silas cursed himself for underestimating her—again.

"You lied," growled the largest of the mercenaries, a former knight-turned-blade-for-hire named Corven. His armor scraped as he stepped forward. "You said she was missing. Now she's here?"

"Locked in my home doesn't mean she's safe," Silas replied evenly, keeping his voice calm. "And the less you knew, the better your chances of survival."

"Bullshit," another man snapped—Rhaun, sharp-eyed and twitchy. "You used us as bait. Got us marching into a fight half-blind."

Silas's jaw tensed.

"I used you," he said, voice low, "because I needed to. And I kept her hidden because there are things hunting her that would rip you to shreds before you drew your first blade."

"Then you should've said that," Corven barked. "You don't lie to men like us and expect us to stay loyal."

Silas moved then—slow, deliberate.

He stepped forward until the firelight caught the angles of his face, casting sharp shadows that made him look like something carved from ash and fury. His eyes glinted—not with fear or apology, but something deeper. Older.

"Loyalty?" he echoed, almost amused. "You came for gold and the thrill of war. Don't insult me by pretending it was about trust."

The room vibrated with tension.

And then Silas let it slip—just enough.

Power rolled from him in a wave.

It was invisible, but it hit like wind in the bones, a pressure that dropped the temperature and bent the light. The hearth behind him flared, casting his silhouette long and sharp across the stone.

"If loyalty must be bought," he said darkly, "then I can offer something no coin ever could."

Corven's brows drew together. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"You serve because I allow it. But if you ever question me again..." He paused. Let the moment stretch. "I will sire you. One by one. Strip your free will until you're nothing but shadows in my wake."

Gasps.

One of the younger men took a step back, hand flying to the hilt at his side. Rhaun muttered a curse and spat on the floor.

"Try it," Rhaun growled. "I'll gut you before you touch me."

Silas's lips curled, faint and dangerous.

And then—it happened.

His eyes shifted. Glowed faintly with that molten, unnatural gleam. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.

"Kneel."

Rhaun collapsed to the ground with a strangled cry.

Corven followed, his knees cracking against stone.

All six men dropped—like puppets cut loose—breathing hard, eyes wide, fighting against an invisible thread wrapped around their minds.

Only Thea remained standing.

She watched it all unfold from the edge of the hall, horror and awe battling across her face.

"You think you have a choice?" Silas whispered, moving toward the circle of men. "You came here for blood and coin. Now you'll earn both. You'll hunt who I tell you to hunt. You'll fight where I send you. You'll bleed when I command it."

He reached Rhaun and released the compulsion just enough for the man to look up.

"And you'll do it with a smile, or I'll rip the teeth from your skull myself."

Then—he snapped his fingers.

The spell broke.

The men gasped, shaking as they rose to their feet like men pulled from a dream.

Silas turned without another word.

"Go to your rooms," he ordered. "We ride at dawn."

They obeyed.

Even the proud ones. Even the angry ones. No more questions.

Just obedience.

When the last man disappeared through the archway, Silas finally faced Thea.

She stood frozen by the door, lips parted.

"What was that?" she whispered.

His expression was unreadable.

"That," he said quietly, "is what I become when I stop pretending to be human."

He walked past her without another word, leaving her in the doorway—reeling from what she'd just seen.

And from the knowledge that even now, after everything, part of her still wanted to follow him.