Bound by Bloodline

Chapter 11

I did not expect to sleep.

That was the last thing I remembered thinking before exhaustion dragged me under anyway, despite the tension still tight in my chest, despite the fact that I was in his room, in his bed, surrounded by a space that smelled like him and felt too much like something I was not supposed to want.

When I woke up, it took me a second to understand what felt wrong.

No, not wrong.

Too warm.

Too close.

My breath caught as awareness came back in pieces. The weight at my waist. The heat pressed along my side. The slow, steady rise and fall of someone else breathing far too near me.

I froze.

Then I looked down.

His arm was around me.

Not loosely. Not accidentally draped at a distance.

Around me.

My back was pressed against his chest, one of my hands trapped between us somewhere near his ribs, my leg half tangled with his beneath the blankets like at some point during the night I had forgotten every warning sign I had and shifted closer instead of farther away.

For one long, humiliating second, I could not breathe.

No.

Absolutely not.

I started to move, slowly at first, trying to ease myself out of it without waking him, but the second I shifted, his hold tightened.

Not hard.

Not enough to hurt.

Just enough to pull me closer.

My whole body went still.

The bond reacted instantly, warm and deep and awful in the way it made something in me soften before I could force it back under control.

I closed my eyes for a second and tried not to panic.

This was not happening.

I was not waking up wrapped around him like this.

I was not.

Then his voice, rough with sleep and much too close to my ear, sent a shiver straight down my spine.

“If you are planning to pretend this is all my fault, at least wait until I open my eyes.”

I jerked away so fast this time there was no easing out of it. I twisted in his hold, glaring at him the second I had enough space to do it. He was awake now, one arm still bent where it had been around me, dark hair slightly messier than usual, expression calmer than it had any right to be.

“You were holding me.”

His brows lifted slightly. “You were the one halfway on top of me.”

My mouth fell open.

“I was not.”

“You were.”

“I was asleep.”

“So was I.”

“That is not the point.”

His gaze moved over my face for a second, and there was something infuriatingly calm about the way he looked at me, like this was nothing, like he was not currently lying in bed beside me after I had woken up tangled in him like some kind of badly timed fantasy.

“It happened,” he said.

“That is your brilliant explanation.”

“It is the only one you need.”

I sat up too quickly, pulling the blanket with me like somehow that would create distance after the fact. My heart was still racing, heat crawling up my neck in a way that only made me more irritated.

“This is exactly why I said I should not be in here.”

“And yet,” he said quietly, propping himself up on one arm, “you stayed.”

I looked at him.

Really looked at him.

He did not sound smug. He did not even sound amused.

He just sounded awake now. Steady. Certain. Like he was saying something simple and obvious.

“That does not mean I wanted this.”

Something in his expression shifted then. Slightly. Not much, but enough for me to notice.

“I know.”

The answer was so immediate it caught me off guard.

I frowned. “Do you.”

“Yes.”

There was no sharpness in it. No challenge. Just truth.

And somehow that made it harder to keep hold of my anger.

I looked away first, adjusting the blanket around me more out of nerves than modesty, trying to ground myself in something normal.

The room was quieter in the morning. Softer. The light coming in through the windows made everything look less severe, less like a place I was trapped in and more like a place someone actually lived in.

That thought bothered me more than it should have.

Neither of us said anything for a few seconds.

This time, the silence did not feel tense.

It felt aware.

I hated that too.

“I move when I sleep,” I said finally, because for some reason that was the thing I could not let stand unchallenged.

His mouth almost moved.

Almost.

“You are not laughing.”

“I am thinking about it.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Do not.”

That almost smile faded as quickly as it came, replaced by something quieter.

“I did not exactly mean to wake up holding you either.”

I held his gaze for a second. “You tightened your arm when I moved.”

His eyes stayed on mine.

“Yes.”

The honesty of it made my breath catch.

“Why.”

He did not answer right away, and for the first time since I had met him, it did not feel like he was withholding just to control the conversation. It felt like he was actually choosing his words.

“Because I knew it was you,” he said.

The room went still around us.

I stared at him, suddenly too aware of everything. His voice. The morning light. The sheets still twisted around both of us. The fact that a few seconds earlier my body had recognized him before my mind had fully woken up.

“That is not an answer,” I said, though my voice came out quieter than I intended.

“It is the only honest one.”

Something in my chest tightened.

Not the bond this time.

Something else.

I looked down at my hands, twisting the edge of the blanket between my fingers before I could stop myself. The motion was restless, automatic, the kind of thing I did when I was trying not to say more than I should.

He noticed.

Of course he noticed.

“You do that when you are thinking too hard.”

My head lifted immediately. “Do what.”

“That,” he said, glancing at my hands. “Like you are trying to keep yourself together by holding onto something.”

I stilled.

For a second, I did not know what to say.

Then I let go of the blanket like it had burned me.

“You act like you know me.”

“No,” he said, and this time his voice was quieter than I had heard it before. “I act like I am paying attention.”

That should not have hit me the way it did.

It was such a simple thing. Such a small thing.

And yet the words landed somewhere deep enough to make me look away again.

People did not usually pay attention unless they wanted something. They noticed what was useful. What was obvious. What was easy to take.

Not things like that.

Not little things.

I swallowed, suddenly not wanting him to look at me too closely.

Too late.

“What,” he asked.

I shook my head. “Nothing.”

His tone changed slightly. Softer. Not gentle exactly, but close enough to make me uneasy.

“You are doing it again.”

“What.”

“Shutting down.”

I let out a quiet breath that was almost a laugh, except there was nothing funny in it.

“You make that sound simple.”

“It is not.”

I looked at him then, and something about the way he was watching me had changed too. Less guarded. Still intense, still him, but not as hard around the edges.

That was somehow worse than the possessiveness.

That was dangerous in a different way.

“I do not like people knowing things about me,” I said before I could stop myself.

The admission surprised both of us.

I could tell by the way his expression shifted.

But he did not push.

He just waited.

The space between us felt different now. We were still too close, still in the same bed, still wrapped in a morning that should have been awkward enough to send me running for the door. But instead it felt like the room had gone quieter around the words I had just let out.

“Why,” he asked finally.

It should have annoyed me.

It did not.

Because for once, it did not sound like a demand. It sounded like an actual question.

I looked down again, then back at him.

“Because when people know where to look,” I said slowly, “they know where to hurt you.”

The words were out before I could call them back.

For a moment, neither of us moved.

He did not respond right away, and I was grateful for that because if he had said the wrong thing, I would have shut down completely.

Instead, when he did speak, his voice was low.

“Who taught you that.”

I let out a breath and looked toward the window, toward the morning light I suddenly did not want to face.

“Life.”

It was a weak answer. We both knew it.

But it was all I had.

He was quiet for a second longer.

Then, “That is not the same as saying no one did.”

I looked back at him, startled by how quickly he had cut through that.

“You ask a lot of questions for someone who barely talks.”

“And you avoid a lot for someone who always has something to say.”

I should have rolled my eyes.

Instead, I felt the corner of my mouth threaten to move.

Barely.

It disappeared before it could become anything real.

His gaze caught it anyway.

Of course it did.

“You do that too,” he said.

“Do what.”

“Pretend you are harder to read than you are.”

That got my attention back fast. “I am not easy to read.”

“You are when you stop trying so hard.”

I stared at him.

Then I shook my head and looked away, because arguing felt dangerous when part of me knew he might be right.

The bond sat quietly between us now, no longer sharp, no longer demanding, just present. Warm. A low hum beneath everything else. Like it was listening.

I hated that I was listening too.

“What about you,” I asked before I could stop myself.

His brows drew together slightly. “What about me.”

“You keep asking me things.”

I glanced at him again. “So answer one.”

He was quiet for a second.

Then, “Ask.”

The word settled between us.

Simple.

Open.

It should not have felt as significant as it did.

I hesitated anyway.

Then I asked the first thing that came to mind.

“Why are you really doing this.”

His gaze held mine. “Keeping you here.”

“All of it.”

The room felt very still after that.

He did not answer quickly. He did not avoid it either.

When he finally spoke, his voice was lower than before, rougher around the edges in a way that felt real.

“Because I have spent my life knowing exactly what to do in every situation,” he said. “And the second I saw you, I did not.”

I did not move.

Did not speak.

He held my gaze the whole time.

“I felt you before I understood what it was,” he continued. “And I hated that. I hated that something could get under my skin that fast. I hated that you could.”

My breath caught.

He noticed.

Still, he kept going.

“But hating it did not change anything.” His eyes dropped briefly, then lifted back to mine. “It did not stop me from knowing that if I let you walk away, I would follow. It did not stop me from knowing that if someone tried to take you, I would stop them.”

The room seemed smaller again.

Closer.

“You barely know me,” I whispered.

“I know,” he said. “That is the problem.”

Something in my chest pulled tight.

Not in fear.

Not exactly.

In recognition.

And that terrified me.

For the first time since this started, I did not know what to say.

So I said the only thing I could.

“This is a bad idea.”

He looked at me for a long second, something unreadable moving through his expression.

Then he said, “Probably.”

I should not have laughed.

I did.

It slipped out quietly, brief and surprised, and the second it did, something changed in his face. Not much. Just enough to make my stomach tighten.

“You are staring again,” I muttered.

“You are laughing.”

“That did not happen.”

“It did.”

I shook my head and looked away, but it was too late. The moment had already settled between us, softening something I had not wanted softened.

That was the worst part.

Not the closeness. Not the bed. Not even waking up wrapped around him.

It was this.

The conversation.

The way it felt dangerously easy to stay here a little longer.