EVER BOUND

ONE

Dùn Briarach, Ireland — Winter, 1122

Thea

The forest wrapped around her like a living thing.

Tall oaks twisted toward a pewter sky, their bare branches clawing at the mist. The ground was damp with melting snow, the earth soft beneath the thin soles of her leather boots. Every breath Thea took was laced with cold and woodsmoke, as if the very bones of the forest were breathing with her.

She wore a heavy woolen cloak, frayed at the edges but warm, drawn tightly over her simple linen gown. Her hair—thick, coiled, and wild—was pinned back at the nape with an iron pin to keep it out of her face, though a few stubborn curls clung to her damp cheeks.

Thea knelt in the mud, not caring about the state of her skirts, her hands trembling as she cradled the broken body of a dove.

It was a young thing. Barely feathered. Its tiny chest fluttered weakly, a breath away from death.

Thea didn't know how she knew what to do.

She simply did.

Her thumb brushed over the fragile curve of its head, and she whispered something under her breath.

The words were old. Older than the trees. Older than the stones buried beneath the hills. A tongue passed from grandmother to granddaughter, blood to blood.

The chant slipped from her mouth, effortless. Natural.

The forest seemed to bend closer, listening.

Thea's fingertips began to darken—inky and bruised, as though the magic itself was sinking into her skin. Her chest tightened sharply, a sting at the back of her throat.

A thin trickle of blood slid from her nose.

She didn't wipe it away.

She only whispered the final word and laid both palms flat against the dove's heart.

A c***k—soft, like a twig snapping beneath fresh snow—echoed in the clearing.

The dove stirred.

It blinked up at her with bright, black eyes.

Alive.

It stretched its mended wings, strong and sure once more, and for a heartbeat longer than natural, it simply stared at her—as if offering silent thanks.

Then it lifted into the gray air, vanishing through the bare branches with a flash of white.

Thea exhaled a shuddering breath. Her hands dropped into her lap.

She should not have done it here.

Not outside. Not where they could see.

Her grandmother's voice whispered in her memory:

Keep it secret. Keep it close.

Thea reached for her satchel, fingers slick with rain and blood, when she heard it—

Snap.

Sharp. Close.

The hairs at the back of her neck rose.

Without thinking, she slipped her hand beneath her cloak and withdrew a small dagger, the hilt worn from use but honed sharp as a fang.

She rose to her feet slowly, scanning the tree line.

The mist clung low to the ground, turning every shadow into something larger, more dangerous.

Another step—a heavy boot shifting mud.

Thea tightened her grip on the dagger, heart hammering against her ribs.

She would fight if she must.

The trees parted with a rustle.

And a man stepped out of the mist.

He was tall—well over six feet—and broad through the chest, the heavy folds of his thick woolen plaid belted low across his hips. The dark green and black of his tartan marked him as someone important, a man of standing among the clans.

A sword hung from his hip, its hilt worked with fine silver. His cloak was pinned with a brooch shaped like a stag, the sigil of the MacRae house.

His hair, long and dark, was pulled back at the nape in a leather thong, the sharp planes of his face framed by a short beard dusted with rain. His skin was fair, but the way he moved—quiet despite his size, confident despite the cold—marked him as a warrior first, a noble second.

When his eyes found hers, they did not widen in surprise.

They warmed.

Thea's breath hitched.

She knew him.

She was sure of it.

But she didn't know how.

Or why.

The man paused at the edge of the clearing, his hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword—not in threat, but readiness. He tilted his head slightly, as if to see her more clearly through the mist.

Thea's dagger wavered in her hand.

Somewhere deep inside, something ancient stirred.

Recognition.

Fear.

Something dangerously close to longing.

And before she could make sense of it—before she could even move—

The dream began to dissolve.

Thea woke at the thin edge of dawn, the light barely strong enough to wash across the cracked ceiling above her bed. She lay still for a moment, her chest rising and falling too fast, the remnants of the dream clinging to her like mist. Her skin was clammy against the sheets, her hair plastered damp to the back of her neck.

She turned her head toward the clock on the nightstand. Five o'clock. Hours before her alarm was scheduled to pull her into the day.

A long, low sigh left her as she rolled onto her back and stared up at the beams of her ceiling. She wasn't surprised to find herself awake, not really. It had been this way for as long as she could remember—waking after dreams that were too vivid, too real, leaving an ache in her chest that never fully faded.

Since she was a child, the same dream had visited her. Sometimes soft as smoke, sometimes searing as fire. Always the forest. Always the man. Always the sense that she was remembering something important, something she had lost before she was even born.

It used to scare her.

Now, it was simply a part of her. A strange, unsettling thread woven through an otherwise ordinary life.

At the foot of the bed, a soft chirrup sounded.

Thea looked down to see Mags, her old gray cat, spring lightly onto the mattress. She purred loudly, padding her way up until she could nuzzle against Thea's arm.

Thea offered a tired smile and scratched behind the cat's ears.

"You're too early," she muttered, her voice rough from sleep. "It's not morning yet."

Still, Mags gave a persistent headbutt, and Thea knew there would be no getting back to sleep now.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed, the wooden floor cold beneath her bare feet. Padding quietly into the kitchen, she fished a can of food from the cupboard and pulled back the lid with a soft hiss.

Mags trotted at her heels, tail high in anticipation.

Thea bent to scoop the food into a bowl, setting it down carefully on the worn tile floor. She expected Mags to dive in immediately, as she always did.

But the cat didn't move.

Instead, she stayed rooted in place, body taut, ears flicked forward, her golden gaze fixed on something beyond the kitchen.

Thea straightened slowly, following the cat's stare toward the front of the house.

The windows there were dark, the sheer curtains billowing slightly with the draft, but there was nothing she could see that would cause such focus, such tension.

An uneasy feeling prickled at the base of her neck.

She crossed the room, lifting the edge of the curtain to peer out into the pale gray dawn.

At first, she saw nothing. Only the sodden yard, the muddy garden beds, the tree line heavy with mist.

And then her breath caught.

There, leaning against one of the thick oaks at the very edge of her property, was a man.

He sagged against the tree trunk as if it were the only thing holding him upright, his head drooped low, one arm clutched tightly against his ribs. Even from this distance, she could see the way he struggled to stay conscious, the way the weight of him seemed ready to crumple.

Fear rose, sharp and immediate.

Without thinking, Thea turned from the window and grabbed the small kitchen knife from the counter. It was a foolish weapon against any real threat, but it gave her a sliver of courage to cling to.

She shoved her bare feet into rain boots and shrugged on her thick coat, then stepped out into the wet morning.

The air smelled of earth and coming rain, heavy and clean.

Thea moved carefully down the worn path toward the garden, her boots sinking slightly into the muddy ground with each step.

She approached the figure slowly, her heart hammering against her ribs.

The closer she got, the more detail she could make out.

His clothes were torn and soaked through. Blood stained the side of his shirt, and his hair, long and dark, clung to his forehead in tangled strands. His skin was pale, far too pale, and his breathing shallow.

Still, it wasn't the injuries that made her heart lurch painfully in her chest.

It was his face.

Even battered and bleeding, it was unmistakable.

She knew it.

Every line, every angle. She had seen that face a hundred times before.

In her dreams.

Thea's breath hitched painfully. She blinked once, twice, as if trying to clear the vision away.

But he didn't disappear.

He was real. Solid. Flesh and blood and impossibility.

A tremor ran through her hand as she reached out, needing to touch him, needing to be sure she hadn't finally lost her mind.

Her fingertips brushed the chilled skin of his forearm.

In an instant, his hand shot up and clamped around her wrist.

Thea cried out in shock, stumbling backward, but his grip was iron—even weakened, even barely conscious.

His eyes snapped open, dark and fever-bright, locking onto hers.

For a moment, he simply stared at her, his face tight with pain, confusion, and something deeper—something almost like recognition.

His voice, when it came, was rough and raw, but laced with the faintest trace of humor.

"If you aren't going to kill me this time," he rasped, "you might as well help me."

Thea could only stare at him, heart in her throat, her body frozen between fear and some fierce, aching need to understand.

His fingers loosened, and he slumped fully against the tree.

Thea didn't move for several seconds. She just stared at the man slumped against the tree, her heart pounding with the force of something she couldn't name. His words still echoed in her head—"If you aren't going to kill me this time..."

It had felt like being struck.

He had looked at her like he knew her. Like he had known her for a very long time.

But right now, she couldn't afford to get lost in the mystery of him. He was unconscious again, and bleeding.

Without another word, Thea turned and ran for the house.

She burst through the back door and grabbed her phone from the counter, her fingers slick with rain as she punched in the emergency number.

No signal.

She checked again. Turned it off, turned it back on. Nothing.

The storm must have knocked out the service. Or maybe it was just another one of the area's dead zones. Either way, it meant she was on her own.

She swore softly and stared at the screen. Her truck was still in the shop, the mechanics waiting on a part that wouldn't arrive until next week.

There would be no ambulance. No help.

It was just her.

And him.

She grabbed the first aid kit from the bathroom and a thick blanket from the linen closet, then hurried back outside.

Getting him inside was harder than she anticipated.

He was heavy—muscle and bone and soaked clothing—and completely unhelpful in his unconscious state.

Thea dragged him across the muddy grass, then through the kitchen door, leaving wet footprints and streaks of blood across the floor. She had to stop twice to catch her breath before she finally got him onto the old plaid sofa that sat against the living room wall.

As soon as she laid him down, the weight of the night hit her all at once.

She bent at the waist, hands braced on her knees, chest heaving.

Mags, who had been watching silently from the armchair, let out a low hiss.

Thea glanced at her cat, who remained perched and bristling, tail lashing from side to side.

"Mags," Thea muttered, waving a hand. "Not now."

The cat didn't move, but she fell silent, though her yellow eyes stayed fixed on the man like she could see something Thea couldn't.

Turning back to her patient, Thea knelt beside the couch and carefully peeled back the remains of his shirt. The fabric was shredded along the left side, torn open over the ribs where the blood had soaked through.

But what she found beneath the shirt stopped her cold.

The wound—whatever had caused it—was already closing.

Not entirely. But the skin had begun to knit together, new tissue forming with an unnatural quickness.

It didn't make sense.

She had seen injuries like this before on animals who had started to heal for days. Not within hours.

Still, she pressed a hand to his chest and felt the shallow but steady rhythm of his breathing.

Alive.

Definitely alive.

And more beautiful than anyone had a right to be.

Thea tried not to stare, but her eyes roamed without permission—across the strong line of his jaw, the high sweep of his cheekbones, the dark lashes resting against pale skin. His mouth was slightly parted, lips flushed, and the soft rise and fall of his chest beneath her fingers only deepened her sense of unreality.

He looked exactly like the man from her dreams.

Every. Last. Detail.

There had been so many over the years—dozens, maybe hundreds. Some strange, some sweet, others so vivid they left her breathless when she woke. He was always there, and always just out of reach.

But now he was here. In her home.

And she was tending to his wounds like he hadn't just shattered every rule she thought reality followed.

She shook her head, then reached for a small glass jar of salve she'd made just the week before. It was meant for animal wounds—beeswax, arnica, and comfrey—but it would have to do.

She smeared it gently over the closed wound, working slowly, trying not to think too much about the warmth of his skin or the way her hands trembled.

She wrapped a clean bandage around his ribs, careful not to press too hard, and adjusted a folded blanket beneath his head.

Once he was settled, she stood and wiped her hands on a rag, then crossed into the kitchen to make herself a strong cup of coffee.

She needed something to anchor her.

By the time she returned to the living room, cup in hand, the adrenaline had mostly worn off, replaced by a heavy, circling disbelief.

She sank into her armchair across from the sofa and stared at the sleeping man.

She knew that face.

Not in the casual, "he looks familiar" way. She knew it. She had watched that face laugh, cry, bleed, kiss her.

Not in this life.

Not in any life she could explain.

But in her dreams, he had looked at her with so much longing, so much pain...

Some of those dreams had felt real. Too real. Like memories.

The thought made her stomach twist.

She sipped her coffee slowly and pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders.

"I'm not going to fall asleep," she whispered.

But the fire was warm, and the storm had quieted to a gentle patter on the windows.

And across from her, the man who haunted her dreams lay breathing softly.

The same pull was still there.

Steady. Magnetic.

Before long, Thea's eyes drifted shut.

And she slipped under once more..