EVER BOUND

SIXTEEN

Thea stood in the threshold of Silas's chamber, her arms crossed and her jaw tight.

"This is ridiculous," she muttered. "I can sleep in my own bed."

"No." Silas's voice cut through the air like steel unsheathed. "You'll stay here."

He closed the door behind her with a definitive click. The fire in the hearth crackled low, shadows dancing along the stone walls. The room hadn't changed since this morning—still warm from the embers, still carrying the scent of them.

She turned on him. "Why do you work with people you don't even trust?"

"I do trust them," Silas said, stepping past her to check the locks on the tall, shuttered windows. "Just not with you."

Thea blinked. "Isn't that the same thing?"

"No," he said, his back still to her. "It's not."

There was a silence then, filled only by the soft pop of burning wood. Silas finally turned, his face unreadable.

"They'd never betray me," he continued. "But they've never known a softness like you. And men who live in shadow too long will either worship the light... or devour it."

Thea's heart skipped. "So what—you'll babysit me all night?"

He glanced at the bed. Then the armchair by the window. Then the worn velvet chaise near the fire.

"I'll sleep on the couch."

Her brows lifted. "You'll sleep crooked and miserable just to prove a point?"

His lips twitched, barely a smile. "Yes."

She stepped forward, arms still crossed. "That's impractical."

"And noble," he replied, like a martyr.

"And stupid," she countered, nodding to the wide bed between them. "It's your room. Your bed. We can both sleep in it like adults."

A flicker passed across his face—desire, memory, restraint all braided into one. "The last time we shared that bed," he murmured, "I wasn't thinking like an adult."

Thea's breath hitched.

She swallowed, then walked past him and pulled back the heavy comforter on one side. "Then maybe tonight we just think like survivors."

Silas didn't move at first.

But then he crossed the room in near silence, stripped down to his black undershirt, and slid into the other side of the bed like a man surrendering to war.

They lay in the hush, backs to each other. The space between them was only inches, but it felt like miles of memory.

After a long silence, Thea whispered, "You really don't trust them."

"No," Silas said into the dark. "I don't trust myself around you either."

~*~

The chamber was silent.

Not even the wind outside stirred the trees. Only the low embers in the hearth crackled faintly in their dying bed of ash.

Thea had been lying still for what felt like hours, her eyes open, tracing the sharp edges of moonlight spilling in through the high windows. Her back was to Silas, but she could feel him there—tense and unmoving on the other side of the bed like a shadow she knew by name.

She couldn't sleep.

Her body felt too aware, too alive. The bed was too warm, the silence too loud. The closeness of him—without his touch—was like drowning in a memory you weren't allowed to keep.

A sharp intake of breath sounded behind her.

She turned.

Silas sat up slowly, his hand running over his face. His shirt clung to him like he'd been dreaming restlessly. For a moment, he didn't look at her—just stared into the dim hearthlight like he was lost in something that refused to fade.

"Nightmare?" she asked softly.

He didn't answer right away.

"I've had them for centuries," he said finally, voice low and worn. "But not like this."

Thea pushed up onto her elbow. "What do you mean?"

His eyes flicked to hers, shadowed and soft. "This time... it wasn't you dying. It was me. And you just walked away."

Her breath hitched.

"I wouldn't," she said. "Even when I hated you, I never..."

"I know." His voice cut through the dark. "But fear isn't always logical. Neither is guilt."

Thea hesitated. Then, slowly, she pushed back the heavy blanket and moved across the bed until she was sitting beside him. Silas didn't move. He didn't look at her.

Until she reached for his hand.

When their fingers touched, something inside him cracked. The armor he always wore—the one made of blood and duty—fractured in the quiet.

"I'm still here," she whispered.

"I know." He looked at her. Really looked. "And every time I open my eyes and you are, it terrifies me."

The room was too still, too small for the weight between them. Silas leaned in slightly, but stopped himself, his hand tightening in hers.

"I can sleep on the couch," he murmured. "I just need a minute."

Thea shook her head. "Don't."

She guided him back down gently, pulling the covers up around them both. This time, there was no space between them. Her head rested on his chest, his arm draped over her like a shield.

The rhythm of his heartbeat was slower than hers. Calmer. But it soothed her anyway.

"You used to hold me like this," she whispered into his skin. "In every lifetime."

Silas's breath caught.

"And I'll hold you in the next one too," he said softly, "if I survive this one."

Neither of them spoke again.

But they didn't need to.

Because between the hours where the world still slept, a vow passed between them in silence—one made not in magic, or blood, or fate.

But in the simple act of staying.

The first light of morning filtered through the tall, narrow windows, a pale gold haze catching on the dust motes in the air. It swept over the stone walls, across the cold floor, and then landed on the bed—on them.

Thea stirred first.

Warmth greeted her before thought did.

A strong arm draped over her waist. A broad chest rising and falling beneath her cheek. The faint scent of cedar, earth, and something darker—Silas.

She blinked against the light, mind slowly crawling back into the shape of reality.

She hadn't meant to fall asleep like this.

And yet... she hadn't wanted to move either.

Their legs were tangled beneath the sheets, his body curved around hers like instinct. Her hand had slipped beneath the edge of his shirt sometime in the night, palm pressed to his bare skin. Silas slept deeply, jaw slack, the faintest crease between his brows even in rest—as though even his dreams were burdened.

She should have pulled away.

She didn't.

Instead, her fingers gently traced the line of muscle beneath his shirt, her breath slowing to match his. There was something ancient in the silence between them. Something sacred. Like a promise neither of them had spoken aloud.

Then he stirred.

His lashes flickered. His breath caught. His arm tightened around her waist reflexively before he fully opened his eyes.

And when he did, he looked at her like a man waking from a war to find peace beside him.

"...You're still here," he murmured.

Thea nodded, lips parted slightly. "You thought I'd vanish?"

"I thought I'd dreamed you again," he whispered.

Their eyes locked, the space between them thin as silk.

She should have sat up. Should have moved away.

Instead, her hand drifted to his face, her thumb brushing his cheekbone—then lower, grazing the corner of his mouth.

Silas's gaze darkened.

"You have no idea what you do to me," he said, voice hoarse.

Then his mouth found hers.

It wasn't a gentle kiss.

It was the kind of kiss born from too much restraint. The kind that surged with unsaid things, with centuries of ache and minutes of craving. His hand found the small of her back again, pulling her closer, his fingers gripping like he was afraid the moment would be stolen.

Thea answered him with the same hunger.

They moved together like gravity, like memory, like something older than even his blood.

And then—

A knock.

Sharp. Firm. Echoing through the door like a gunshot.

Thea jerked back, breath tangled in her chest. Silas growled low in his throat, his body tense beneath her as he stared at the door like he could set it aflame with thought alone.

"Not now," he muttered.

Another knock.

Then a voice—gruff, clipped. "She's needed downstairs."

Silas didn't answer. He held Thea's gaze instead.

"Do I need to kill someone for waking you?" he asked, only half-joking.

Thea smirked despite herself, heart still racing. "Wouldn't be a very good look for a man trying to prove he's civilized."

His mouth curved into a crooked grin. "Who said I was trying?"

Then he kissed her again—swift and searing, as if to brand the moment into her before he stood.

Silas's hand lingered at the curve of her hip for a beat longer than necessary. His expression was unreadable—half-tender, half-wary.

"You should get dressed," he said finally, his voice low and thick with something unspoken. "Come down when you're ready. The others will want to meet you... and I'd rather be standing between you and them when they do."

He didn't wait for a reply.

Instead, he pressed one last kiss to her temple—so gentle it stole her breath—and then slipped from the room, the door shutting softly behind him.

Thea sat there a moment longer, the heat of his presence still wrapped around her like a second skin. The kiss. The way his body had curved around hers in sleep. The way he said others with the weight of centuries behind it.

She exhaled slowly.

Whatever peace they'd found in the dark was gone now, swept away by the daylight and whatever waited below.

She rose from the bed and padded quietly to the wardrobe Silas had cleared for her. It was filled with a few modest pieces—dark, tailored clothes that didn't quite feel like her own, but would suffice. She chose a simple black tunic and leggings, tugging them on with careful hands.

At the mirror, she smoothed her hair, brushed her fingers over her lips as if the ghost of his kiss still lingered there.

It did.

She tried not to think too long about the way he had looked at her—or the way he had left her. There was purpose in his stride, in the measured way he exited the room. It wasn't coldness. It was control. Protection. Distance, perhaps, but only because closeness was a risk.

And yet... here she was. Still in his room. Still aching for answers.

When she finally descended the main staircase, the manor had changed. There was movement. The low thrum of unfamiliar voices. A new tension in the air.

She followed the sound toward the great dining hall—its double doors already ajar.

Inside, the room was grand but dark, as if the windows had been deliberately left covered. The long wooden table, scarred by age and weathered by use, was flanked by six men—five seated, one standing.

Silas.

He turned at her entrance, and the subtle shift in his posture did not go unnoticed.

Neither did the way the others turned, slowly, carefully, like wolves scenting blood.

Thea paused in the doorway.

Every man in the room had the look of something that had survived too long—sharp eyes, ageless skin, strength coiled beneath silence. One of them smiled at her, not kindly.

Silas's voice cut through the space before anyone else could speak.

"This is Thea," he said plainly. "You'll treat her with respect. Or you'll deal with me."

One of the seated men raised a brow but said nothing.

Thea stepped forward, spine straight, meeting each of their gazes in turn. She didn't smile. Didn't flinch. Let them see whatever they wanted to see—a girl, a witch, a reincarnated lover of their ancient leader. It didn't matter. She was more than a story.

The dining hall had never felt more like a war room.

Thea stood at Silas's side as five pairs of eyes raked over her. They sat in carved, high-backed chairs, each man cloaked in shadow and silence. The air smelled faintly of bloodwine, wet stone, and something older—magic maybe, or power too long buried.

Silas had introduced her simply: This is Thea.

No title. No warning.

The oldest among the men, a broad-shouldered brute with a scar running down one eye, gave a grunt that might have been approval.

"Well," he said, voice like gravel, "she's braver than you ever were, Silas. Standing here with all of us watching her."

Silas didn't blink. "She's more powerful than any of you realize."

"And prettier," added the younger one with a wicked grin. His coat was embroidered with gold threading, his accent something old-European. "Though I expected more fangs or fire."

"She doesn't need theatrics," Silas said.

Thea stepped forward, chin high. "If you're done discussing me like I'm not here, maybe I can introduce myself."

That drew chuckles from most of them—even a slow clap from the one with the scar.

Silas's eyes flicked to her, unreadable. But there was something proud in the stillness of his shoulders.

"My name is Thea," she said clearly. "And I know who I was. And I know what's coming. So unless one of you is hiding a plan to undo a centuries-old curse, I'd appreciate a little less smugness."

The tension fractured.

The gold-threaded one leaned forward with a glint of amusement. "I like her."

"I don't," came a colder voice from the corner.

Thea turned.

She hadn't noticed the sixth figure—standing, not sitting. A woman. Tall. Regal. Dressed in blood-red robes with a single obsidian ring on her middle finger. Her black hair was pulled tight into a braid that looked sharp enough to cut.

Varya.

She hadn't said a word until now.

"She reeks of new magic," Varya said, curling her lip. "Not a drop of discipline. Not a shred of control. And yet we're expected to trust her with our lives?"

"You're not trusting her," Silas said flatly. "You're trusting me."

"That's worse," Varya hissed.

Silas stood suddenly, the air around him darkening just slightly.

"Enough," he said.

Even Varya bowed her head—if only by a hair.

The rest of the meeting unfolded in clipped discussion: updates from distant safehouses, rumors of defections, scattered movements in the North. Thea stayed quiet, absorbing it all, noting who deferred to Silas, and who only tolerated him.

Still, by the time it ended, the scarred one—Jarek—had nodded respectfully at her. The gold-threaded man—Lazlo—had winked, and even the silent brute near the window had muttered, "She's better than the last one."

Only Varya remained silent.

~*~

The bed was large, but the space between them felt tighter than a noose.

Thea lay on her side, facing the fire, its low flames casting a golden haze across the wooden floorboards. Silas lay behind her, stiff and unmoving, as if the mattress itself might betray them if he shifted too close.

She hated it.

Not the silence—she could live with silence—but the way it bristled. The way it pushed up between them like a wall made of everything they weren't saying.

Finally, Thea turned.

"You're really going to sleep like that?" she asked, voice soft but sharp.

Silas didn't move. "Like what?"

"Like I'm made of glass. Or worse, like you're afraid of touching me."

He finally turned his head to look at her. "You asked me to stay. I'm respecting your space."

"It's not space I need," she muttered. "It's the truth."

That got him to shift, just slightly, propping himself up on one elbow.

"The truth is I don't trust them," he said. "Not fully. Not with you."

Thea sat up, the sheet falling around her waist. "Then why are they here? Why work with people you don't trust around me?"

"Because I don't have the luxury of isolation anymore," Silas said, voice low. "We're outnumbered. We need allies, even if they come with teeth."

She frowned. "Then say that. Don't lock me in a room. Don't keep secrets. Don't... smother me under the guise of protection."

He narrowed his eyes. "You think I'm smothering you?"

"Yes!" she snapped. "Silas, I have memories in my head of wielding power that could bend the earth. You think I need a babysitter?"

He looked away, jaw clenched. "You also have memories of being hunted. Burned. Buried."

"That was lifetimes ago," she said, her voice trembling with rising heat. "This is now. I'm not her anymore—at least, not entirely. I'm me. And I'm asking you to stop treating me like a fragile ghost."

"I'm not protecting her," Silas said through gritted teeth. "I'm protecting you. This version. The one that still flinches when she uses her hands to light a flame. The one that walks into rooms filled with monsters and dares to hold her chin high."

Thea stared at him.

He sounded furious. But underneath it all was fear. Ancient. Familiar.

She breathed in slow.

"I'm not asking you to stop caring," she said. "I'm asking you to trust that I'll figure it out. That I can."

Silas's hand flexed in the sheets.

A long silence stretched between them.

Finally, he lay back down, one arm behind his head, staring at the ceiling.

"I'll try," he said.

It wasn't an apology.

But it wasn't a dismissal, either.

Thea turned her back to him again, heart still pounding. The fire crackled. The room settled.

But sleep didn't come easy that night—not for either of them.

Not with that much space between their hearts.