EVER BOUND

EIGHT

Thea wasn't sure what woke her—a sound, a dream, or the unfamiliar feel of the enormous bed beneath her.

The manor was quieter than anything she'd known. The kind of silence that seemed to press against your ears. Even the old pipes in the walls didn't creak. The fire had died to low embers, casting faint shadows across the dark oak beams overhead.

Marg was curled into a tight ball at her feet, breathing slow and deep.

Thea sat up, running a hand through her hair. The unfamiliarity of the place gnawed at her, even beneath all its beauty. It felt like a museum, or a mausoleum—full of stories that no one had bothered to tell her yet.

She padded to the door, barefoot in the cool air, and opened it just as a figure crossed the end of the corridor.

Silas.

He stopped when he saw her, one brow lifting faintly.

"Couldn't sleep?" he asked softly.

She shook her head. "Not really."

A pause, then—"Come," he said. "If you're going to stay here, you should at least know where you are."

Without waiting for a reply, he turned and began walking. Thea hesitated only a beat before following.

The halls of the manor were dim, lit by tall wall sconces and the occasional candelabra. At night, the place felt even larger—endless, almost.

Silas moved with quiet familiarity, his steps near-silent on the stone. Thea trailed behind him, her bare feet soundless by comparison.

"This place is old," he said as they walked. "Older than most recorded histories. It was first a keep, then a fortress. My family held it through centuries of war."

"Your family?" she asked. "You mean—your... human family?"

He gave a faint smile. "Yes. Once."

He led her into a long gallery lined with portraits—lords and ladies staring down from gilded frames, their features pale and proud.

Thea stopped before one of them—a tall man in a dark green doublet, sword at his hip.

The name beneath it read: Silas MacRae, Laird of Cairnmoore.

She turned slowly toward the man at her side.

"That's you," she whispered.

He nodded once. "A very long time ago."

"How long?"

He gestured for her to follow again, and they continued into another wing of the house—past cabinets of old weaponry, scrolls, books with cracked spines, faded battle banners hung high above the beams.

"I was born in the late eleventh century," he said finally. "Around 1080. Sired... centuries later. I've been many things since. Soldier. Laird. Outlaw. Merchant. And a dozen other lives between."

Thea's breath caught.

"That's nearly a thousand years."

Silas's voice was low, almost amused. "It is."

She stopped walking, stunned. "That means..."

He looked at her then, eyes calm. "That your soul is just as old."

Her stomach flipped.

It was one thing to know she was different. To feel something ancient inside her when the dreams came. But hearing it spoken so plainly—by him—made it real in a way she hadn't been ready for.

She swallowed. "You can't die?"

"I can."

"How?"

"Very few ways," he said simply. "And none you'll need to concern yourself with."

She tilted her head, trying to shake the rising nerves. "So if I... stabbed you, right now—"

He cut her a look, lips quirking faintly. "I would bleed."

"But not your own blood?"

A beat.

"No," he said. "Not mine."

A shiver ran down her spine.

The way he spoke of it wasn't dramatic or ominous—it was factual. Simple. Like discussing the weather.

She let out a breath, trying to laugh it off. "Well, good to know I shouldn't go grabbing the kitchen knives."

His smile softened. "There are easier ways to hurt me."

That silenced her.

Because when he looked at her just then—really looked—there was something ancient in his gaze. Something tired, but no less hungry for what stood in front of him.

The gallery stretched on in hushed shadow around them.

Thea's pulse fluttered.

This wasn't a castle, or a museum, or a story. It was his home. His life, stretched across centuries. And somehow, she'd been woven through it all.

And now here they were again—standing side by side in the quiet, like two ghosts walking through time.

She wanted to ask more—to press him for the truths still hovering between them—but before she could find the words, Silas turned slightly, watching her from the corner of his eye.

"There's something else I want to show you," he said softly. "Come."

Without waiting, he led her down a narrower hall, past a heavy side door that opened with a deep groan into the night air. A rush of cool wind tugged at her hair, fresh and sharp after the stillness of the manor.

Thea followed him deeper into the trees.

The air here smelled different—earthier, touched with damp moss and something faintly sweet. The old oaks gave way to younger growth, tangled with brambles and ivy. Roots curled up through the soil beneath her bare feet, and the wind stirred the branches overhead with a low, whispering sound.

They came upon a narrow stone arch nearly swallowed by nature. Ivy climbed thickly up each side, woven with tiny white blooms. At the top, a weathered iron gate stood slightly ajar. It looked as though no one had passed through it in years.

Silas brushed the vines back and pushed the gate open.

It groaned softly on its hinges, the sound echoing through the quiet wood.

"Where are we?" Thea asked, her voice hushed.

Silas glanced back at her, the shadows deepening the sharp lines of his face. "To what was once your favorite place."

He stepped through the gate.

Thea followed.

The air changed instantly.

Beyond the arch, the forest gave way to a hidden garden—secluded, silent, and bathed in pale silver light. The space was enclosed by a low, crumbling stone wall, overgrown in places with soft moss. Within, narrow stone paths wove between deep beds of herbs and flowers—lavender, thyme, sweet woodruff, wild rosemary. Tall stalks of foxglove reached toward the moon, their bell-shaped blossoms trembling gently in the breeze.

Near the back of the garden, a broad hawthorn tree spread its twisted branches overhead, its pale blossoms glowing white in the dark. Beneath it sat a curved stone bench, worn smooth with age, surrounded by clusters of violet anemones and dark red columbine. A small fountain stood nearby, its basin filled with clear water, though the source was hidden beneath the ivy that now trailed through it.

The scent of the place was rich—earth and bloom, spice and green things still growing. Thea inhaled deeply, heart tightening.

"It's beautiful," she whispered.

Silas's gaze stayed fixed on her. "You planted it."

Her breath caught.

He stepped closer, voice low. "You always did. Every time."

Thea swallowed hard. "How... how could I know that?"

"This is where I would always find you," Silas said softly. "When you needed quiet. When your powers overwhelmed you. When the court became too much, or when you couldn't bear the weight of others' eyes."

She turned in a slow circle, taking in every detail.

The herbs. The flowers. The tree.

Her fingers itched to kneel in the dark soil, to tend to it as though she'd done so a hundred times before. Her chest ached with a strange, bittersweet longing—for something she couldn't fully remember, but her soul clearly did.

"I kept it," Silas continued. "Even after you were gone. Over the years. I made sure it was tended. In case you ever came back."

A breeze stirred the lavender, sending a ripple through the garden.

Thea blinked fast, her throat tight. "It feels... familiar," she admitted quietly.

Silas's eyes were steady. "Because it is."

Thea wrapped her arms around herself, unsure what to do with the emotion rising sharp and sudden in her chest.

The garden—her garden—was alive. Breathing. And waiting.

And deep down, some part of her knew it had been waiting for her.

Thea took a slow step deeper into the garden, her bare feet brushing the stone path.

She knelt beside a patch of lavender and ran her fingertips lightly over the soft, fragrant stems. The touch sent a strange pulse through her chest—half memory, half ache.

"How could I have known this place?" she asked softly, not looking up.

Silas stood a few feet behind her, still and silent among the shadows.

"You knew it," he said. "In every life."

She rose slowly, turning to face him.

The questions pressed harder now—deeper than fear, sharper than confusion.

"Who were we?" she asked, her voice low. "Before."

Silas's gaze held hers, unwavering. The breeze caught a lock of his dark hair, brushing it against his cheek.

He didn't speak right away.

"I see flashes," Thea continued, her heart quickening. "Moments. You're always there. But I don't know what we were to each other."

Silas's throat worked. His gaze flicked to her mouth, then back to her eyes.

"You were... important to me," he said carefully. "More than anyone."

The words weren't enough. Not anymore.

Thea stepped closer, her breath uneven. "Important how?"

She searched his face, seeking the truth in the lines carved by centuries.

Silas's restraint wavered. He reached for her almost without thinking—one hand lifting to brush her cheek, his thumb grazing lightly along her jaw.

Her breath caught.

When she didn't pull away, he spoke—his voice low and rough.

"You were everything."

Thea's heart surged.

And in the next breath, she closed the space between them.

Their lips met—soft at first, then hungry, urgent. His hands slid to her waist, pulling her closer. The warmth of him, the solidity, the pull that had haunted her dreams—it all crashed over her in that single moment.

And she kissed him back with the aching familiarity of someone finding what they hadn't known was missing.

There was no fear in it.

Only longing.

And the memory of something once lost.

The kiss deepened.

Silas's grip at her waist tightened—not harsh, but anchoring, as though he needed to remind himself that this was real. That she was real.

Thea pressed into him, her hands rising to his chest, fingers fisting lightly in his shirt. His mouth was warm against hers—deeper, rougher now—as if centuries of restraint had cracked all at once.

And gods, it wasn't new. Not to her. Not truly.

With every sweep of his lips, every shift of his hands, the memories rushed forward—half-formed images from her dreams.

His mouth at her throat.

The heat of his hands at her hips.

The way he had touched her—like she was something rare. Something sacred. Something he couldn't bear to lose.

Her pulse thundered in her ears.

Her body moved on instinct—like it remembered this just as well as he did.

When Silas's mouth dragged to the edge of her jaw, breath hot against her skin, her head tipped back without thought, giving him space, inviting more. His hands slid over her back, splaying wide—firm, possessive, yet reverent.

He murmured something against her throat, words in a language she didn't recognize but somehow felt. A soft sound escaped her lips in answer, half sigh, half plea.

Her heart swelled painfully.

Because this—this connection, this hunger—was written in her bones.

And for the first time, she knew:

Whatever they had been, whatever they had lost... it had always started like this.

Silas's hands slid lower along her back, fingers gripping at her hips now—his breath ragged against her throat, every inch of him pressed close.

Thea's pulse hammered, her mind drowning in heat and memory.

She barely registered the faint shift in the air.

The sudden prickle at the nape of her neck.

Silas froze—mid-breath, mid-motion.

His head snapped up.

Everything about him changed in an instant. His muscles coiled tight beneath her hands. His eyes flashed—not with hunger now, but something sharp and deadly.

Before Thea could ask what was wrong, he moved.

One hand released her waist to shove her firmly behind him. The other dropped to the hilt of a blade she hadn't even noticed strapped beneath his coat.

From the treeline beyond the garden came a soft, deliberate clap.

"Well," a low voice called from the shadows, "isn't this cozy?"

A figure stepped into the clearing, boots crunching on gravel. Behind him, two others emerged—silent, armed, their eyes bright with cold intent.

Silas drew his blade in one smooth motion, angling himself protectively in front of Thea. His voice was steel. "You weren't invited."

The leader—a tall, wiry man with pale hair and an easy grin—tilted his head. "Didn't think you'd mind, seeing as you're entertaining... old flames."

Thea's stomach dropped.

These were no strangers.

These were hunters.

Her breath caught as one of the men's eyes locked onto her—hungry, eager.

"You're making this too easy, Silas," the pale-haired one said. "We expected a chase. Instead, we find you playing house with her."

"Leave," Silas ordered, voice low and lethal. "Now."

The men didn't move.

Steel whispered as the two behind drew their own blades.

"I warned you," Silas growled.

And then—

Everything exploded into motion.

Silas lunged, fast as lightning—blade flashing silver in the dark. The first man barely raised his sword before Silas's strike sent him staggering back, blood blooming at his shoulder.

Thea scrambled to the edge of the garden, breath sharp in her throat, heart racing.

It wasn't a sparring match this time.

This was war.

Thea stumbled back against the garden wall, heart slamming.

It was happening too fast—steel against steel, flashes of fangs, snarls that weren't fully human. Silas was a blur—cutting, dodging, striking—but there were too many. For every one he knocked back, two more came.

The garden that had moments ago held warmth and memory now rang with violence.

She couldn't breathe.

Couldn't think.

He's going to die.

The thought tore through her, raw and primal.

And something deep inside her answered.

A low hum beneath her ribs. A fire rising in her blood—hot, wild, alive.

She gripped the stone wall, knuckles white, as her vision blurred. Heat licked up her spine. Her mouth opened, though she didn't know why—words forming of their own volition.

Older than her voice. Older than memory.

"Domhan na fola, éist liom..."

The wind howled through the trees.

The men faltered mid-strike, turning toward her, eyes wide.

"Ceangal na fírinne... doirteadh fola, stad!"

Thea didn't know what she was saying. But the words poured from her in a voice that wasn't wholly her own—layered, reverberating through the stone and sky.

And then—

One by one, the men dropped.

Not sliced. Not cut.

Falling—like their bodies no longer answered them. Blood blooming from their mouths, their eyes dulling as if life had been taken—ripped out by something unseen.

Silas spun in the clearing, blade dripping.

And froze.

His chest rose and fell raggedly. Blood streaked his temple, a long cut seeping crimson along his side. His sword clattered to the stones as he staggered.

"Thea—" His voice broke. "Stop."

But the words were already done.

The air around her shimmered with unseen power—wild, burning.

Thea's knees gave out. She dropped to the earth, gasping.

The world tilted. The fire inside her ebbed—but the damage was done.

Bodies lay scattered across the garden.

Silas fell to one knee, clutching his side, fangs bared.

The crash of boots echoed from the manor. Adair and several staff burst into the clearing, weapons in hand—faces pale at the c*****e.

"Master Silas!" Adair called.

Silas rose slowly, eyes blazing. His gaze locked on Thea—fury and something darker flickering beneath the pain.

"I'm leaving," he growled through gritted teeth.

Thea struggled to her feet, voice shaking. "Wait—what do you mean? You can't just—"

"You're not safe," he bit out. "Not like this."

He turned to Adair, blood dripping from his fingers. "Lock her in the safe room. No one gets in or out."

Adair blinked. "Sir—"

"Do it."

Silas's glare brooked no argument.

Thea's breath caught. "Silas—where are you going?"

He turned toward her, face drawn and deadly.

"To get a new army," he said coldly.

And without another word, he vanished into the night.