EVER BOUND

TWO

Silas

Silas awoke to quiet.

For a long moment, he didn't move. His vision adjusted slowly to the pale light filtering in from the cottage windows. The ceiling above him was low, lined with wooden beams darkened by age. Dust motes hung suspended in the sunlight. The room was warm, still, and utterly unfamiliar.

His body ached, though faintly—like echoes of pain rather than pain itself. A dull throb lived low in his ribs, and beneath it, something deeper. A strange heaviness that didn't belong.

He blinked again, slower this time.

Where am I?

The question rose instinctively, though the answer came before he could fully form the thought. Memory flooded in, raw and disjointed.

Blood. Betrayal.

The ambush had come fast—far too fast for men he'd trained himself. They hadn't approached him like sons. They hadn't bowed, or warned, or hesitated. They had struck to kill.

Three of them, though he sensed more nearby. Not freshbloods either. They were old enough to know better. Old enough to fear him.

And yet, something in their eyes...

That maddened hunger. That certainty. Like they knew something he didn't.

They were not acting alone.

The last thing he remembered was the sharp burn of the bullet. Not iron. Something worse. Something wrong. The moment it tore through him, his limbs had turned sluggish. His strength had bled out of him like water.

He'd barely escaped. His only thought had been to reach her.

And now he was here.

Alive. Whole.

He sat up slowly, bare feet meeting the warm wood floors. The movement startled something soft—a blanket falling from his chest. When he looked down, he saw the bandages across his side, neat and careful, placed with care.

His hand hovered over them. He could feel the wounds already healed beneath the gauze. Her work had not saved him, but it had tried.

She tried.

He stood, testing the stiffness in his joints. Not pain. Just weariness. It would pass.

The room was small, but lived-in. He turned slowly, absorbing the details. A bookshelf bowed under the weight of well-thumbed novels and stray feathers. Dried herbs hung from hooks near the kitchen archway. A worn quilt lay folded over the back of a deep armchair, still warm from use.

The cottage was different now. Changed. Modern, yes, but still standing on the same land. He could feel it—the bones of it.

It wasn't the house he had built for her all those years ago, hidden just far enough from the village to be unseen, but it held a familiar pulse.

His gaze swept across the space, drawn by a presence even before he saw her.

She was curled in the armchair, limbs tangled in a blanket, her head tilted back against the cushion. Her lips parted slightly, breath steady. The fire had burned low beside her, casting her features in soft amber.

Thea.

But not the Thea he remembered.

He moved closer, silently, the way only he could. The floor didn't creak beneath him. Even the air seemed to hush as he approached.

She looked the same in some ways—the curve of her jaw, the thick lashes that lay like shadows against her cheeks. But the anger, the knowing, the fire that had once burned in her was... absent. This Thea looked younger somehow. Unburdened.

He crouched beside her, studying her as if trying to place a mirror against memory. She smelled of rosemary and soap and something sweeter underneath. Her dark curls were coiled at the crown of her head in a loose knot, one tendril curled under her chin like a secret.

The bandages had been her doing.

She had tended to him.

With care. With trust.

He didn't understand it.

She had cursed him once.

Destroyed him, and every creature that bore his blood.

And now... this.

He should have been dead. Or worse. But instead, he had woken in warmth. In her home.

Safe.

Silas swallowed hard, confusion twisting low in his chest. His gaze dropped to her hand where it lay resting on her lap, palm open. He remembered her hands—darkened with power, trembling with wrath.

But this hand bore no threat.

Only gentleness.

This Thea... was different. Then, Thea stirred.

Silas watched as her brow furrowed, her breath catching lightly in her throat before her eyes fluttered open.

For a moment, she looked dazed—unmoored from sleep and time. Then her gaze landed on him.

He braced himself, expecting a scream, a curse, some kind of fury. He had seen her wake before—blazing with power, livid with betrayal. But what he saw instead made his throat go tight.

Fear.

Not the kind that burned hot and defiant, the way her anger had once burned for him. This was cold. Pure. A curl of dread that sat behind her eyes even as her face attempted something more neutral.

She sat up slowly, tugging the blanket tighter around her.

"Oh. Good," she said, voice hoarse with sleep. "You're awake."

She tried to make it sound casual, but it fell flat. He could hear her heart hammering in her chest. Smell the sharp spike of fear-sweat just beneath her skin.

And yet, she masked it. Cleverly. Composed, almost. But he'd known her for centuries—he knew what she looked like when she was lying.

Silas didn't move, though every instinct urged him to reach out. Say something. Remind her. But her eyes... they didn't hold even a flicker of recognition. She saw a man—a stranger—sitting in her home.

"Let me check your wounds," she said, already rising from the chair, brushing past the low-burning fire and crossing to where he sat. "Make sure you're not infected."

He watched her approach.

Thea reached for the hem of his shirt, clearly unsure, clearly bracing herself, but determined. Her fingers brushed the edge of the bandage, and his breath caught—not from pain, but from the scent that rose off her skin. Her pulse had shifted, the rhythm skipping.

She was nervous.

But that wasn't all.

He caught something else. Something warmer. Desire.

It hit him like a punch to the chest. She didn't even realize it, but it was there.

Thea untied the wrap gently, her brows drawn tight with concentration. She peeled the last layer back, revealing smooth, unbroken skin beneath.

She froze.

"No..." she whispered.

Her fingers hovered above the place the wound had been, as if she couldn't believe her own eyes. There should have been blood. Stitches. At the very least, a scar.

But there was nothing.

Silas remained silent, watching her process it.

She took a quick step back, stumbling slightly over the edge of the rug. Her eyes snapped to his.

"What are you?" she asked, her voice brittle.

He tilted his head and gave a dry, half-smile.

"Perhaps a better question," he said slowly, "is who."

Thea's eyes narrowed. She didn't appreciate riddles.

"I don't care who you are if you're bleeding out on my couch," she snapped. "I asked what. Because that—" she jabbed a finger toward the now-unmarked bandages— "doesn't happen to normal people."

Silas studied her for a long moment. She was angry. But beneath that—afraid. That same fear from earlier, crackling beneath the surface. Not the kind of fear Thea MacRae used to show.

Still... it looked like her. Sounded like her. Smelled like her.

But everything else was off.

This wasn't the witch who once scorched him into immortality. This wasn't the woman who cursed his entire bloodline in a fit of vengeful fury.

This Thea didn't know.

And that alone made her dangerous.

He stood slowly, eyes on hers the entire time.

"You're right," he said. "I'm not normal."

"Then what are you?" she asked again, quieter now. "Because if you're some lunatic I dragged in from the woods, I deserve to know what kind of mistake I've made."

Silas stepped forward.

"Would you believe me if I told you the truth?"

Thea crossed her arms.

"Try me."

He tilted his head. "And what if you don't like the answer?"

"I'll call the Garda and let them take care of it."

He almost laughed. "They wouldn't know what to do with me."

Her eyes flashed. "You think this is funny?"

"No," he said, and this time the humor vanished. "I think it's very familiar."

"Familiar?"

"Don't you recognize me?" he asked, voice low. "Not even a little?"

Thea opened her mouth, then closed it. Her gaze flicked over his face. The quiet grew heavier.

Then she shook her head, frustration and confusion lining her features. "No. Should I?"

That stung more than it should have.

He exhaled through his nose and looked away. "Of course not."

Thea moved suddenly, brushing past him toward the kitchen to put distance between them. Her voice rose with every word.

"You show up in my yard bleeding, pass out on my couch, heal like a damn werewolf in a horror movie, and now you're talking in riddles? What the hell is going on?"

Silas turned to face her. "I'm trying to figure that out myself."

"Oh, are you?" She laughed bitterly. "That's comforting."

She stood across from him, arms crossed over her chest like a shield, her brows drawn tight. Her voice had been edged with fear, but her posture had been steady—until now.

"I'm not normal," he said at last.

"That much I figured," she snapped, gesturing to his perfectly healed skin. "But you're not bleeding out anymore, so maybe you could drop the cryptic act and just tell me what the hell is going on."

He tilted his head. "And you'd believe me if I did?"

"Try me."

Silas hesitated. She was so close. So familiar. But everything about her had changed.

He took a step forward, slow. Controlled.

"You don't remember me," he said.

Thea frowned. "Should I?"

That stung more than it should have.

"No," he muttered. "I suppose not."

She blew out a breath and turned away, heading toward the kitchen. He could feel her frustration, could see it in her clenched fists and in the rigid line of her shoulders.

Her emotions crackled in the room like electricity.

The fireplace behind him hissed softly. Then louder.

Thea rounded the counter and braced her palms against it.

"You show up half-dead in my yard," she said, her voice rising, "you break into my dreams, you heal in hours—and now you're acting like I owe you something?"

She shoved off the counter, pacing.

"You're not human," she muttered. "Nothing heals like that. Nothing moves like you did. You're something else. I just—" she spun to face him, hands flaring wide, "I just don't know what."

She dragged a hand through her curls.

"Tell me. Tell me what you are, before I lose my mind."

He opened his mouth, not to answer, but to calm her. To deescalate.

But then—

The fire roared to life.

Thea gasped, spinning toward the hearth. The once-dying embers ignited, flames leaping up the chimney as if fed by gasoline. Heat burst across the room. The air shimmered. Shadows danced wildly on the walls.

Thea stumbled back.

"I—I didn't do that," she whispered.

Silas turned to the fire, then back to her.

Yes. She had.

He could feel the magic rolling off of her now—wild, untrained, reactive. It clung to her skin like steam. Her pupils were dilated, her breath short. And her power was tethered to emotion.

He'd seen it before. But never like this.

He took a step toward her.

"How did you—"

"I don't know!" she cried. "I didn't do anything!"

But the flames still danced higher.

She looked so shaken. So disoriented.

And yet the magic was hers.

It was always hers.

Silas's hand tensed at his side, his body coiled. Reflex. Habit. Painful memory.

"You don't remember any of it?" he asked, this time quieter. Warier.

"No!"

He moved closer still, unsure if she would bolt or burn him alive.

She looked at him like she wanted to do both.

And then—suddenly—she collapsed back onto the arm of the couch, burying her face in her hands. The fire still raged, but her energy began to tremble and break apart like a wave pulling back into sea.

Silas stayed where he was, eyes never leaving her.

This wasn't the Thea who had cursed him into immortality.

This Thea was afraid of what she was.

Before he could take another step, a sharp pressure needled behind his eyes. He turned toward the window—fast. His body tightened.

A presence. Close.

They weren't alone.