Bound to Four

Season two

“Get the camera off her.”

Kael’s command didn’t merely carry—it crashed through the cavern of lights and steel trusses, a jagged strike of sound that silenced the hum of cables and the murmur of crew.

“Now.”

Before the word even finished, his seven-foot-tall frame was already moving. He covered the glossed wood floor in two long, thunderous strides. His fist struck the metal arm of the camera rig with a resonant clang that drowned the faint hiss of hydraulics. The entire contraption wobbled, its wheels skidding, and the operator stumbled backward, half the camera dangling precariously from its mount.

Liora froze in her chair, pinned by the blinding spotlights as the unwilling star of this chaos. Her studio picked a red dress—a shaming sliver of scarlet fabric—hugged her like a second skin, the threads too tight, the neckline too low. She curled inward, tears rolling down her cheeks in slow, trembling lines, each drop stamping a darker stain on the satin. Her sobs were tiny, ragged stutters against the vast, clinical hush.

Kael knelt before her so abruptly that his knees echoed through the stage’s artificial grain with a c***k that rattled the overhead lights. For a heartbeat, he hesitated, hands hovering at her elbows as if he feared he might crush her fragile shape. Then he gathered her in a careful embrace—firm, protective, utterly unspectacular. One hand cradled the back of her head, tucking her tear-streaked face into his chest. Her breath came in rattled little gulps; her fingers clawed at his shirt as though he were the only solid thing left in the universe.

All around them, the studio lay frozen in shocked silence—not reverence, but utter confusion. The cameras had no cue for this unscripted tenderness. The monitors showed nothing but the huge backside of Kael and a tangle of hair and shadow where Liora’s face should have been.

Then a voice crackled through the comms, weary and clipped: “Camera three, adjust your angle.”

Another voice, sharper, closer: “Get around him.”

An assistant’s hand shoved the cameraman forward, as if nothing mattered more than the shot—not the ragged girl in Kael’s arms, not the metal rig scattered across the floor like a wounded beast.

“Yeah… that’s it,” the producer murmured into his headset, satisfaction in his tone. “Perfect.”

Kael froze, the tension of his arms a tight coil beneath Liora’s back. Her sobs slowed to soft hiccups; she didn’t lift her head to face the cameras or the brightly polished set that paid her wage. Instead, she pressed herself deeper against his chest. Her entire world reduced to the solid warmth of his body.

Above their heads, the giant screen flickered in blinding white: Cheerful graphics dancing across a stage that suddenly felt cold and merciless.

THE NEWLYWED GAME SEASON 2

Beneath the title, a photograph flashed of the next Bride-to-be: a candid close-up caught on a street years ago, a smiling woman in a casual top, sunshine in her hair.

Kael lifted his eyes first, glassy with anger and something else—fear, perhaps, or disbelief. Liora remained pressed against him, her face still hidden.

“Who is she?” he whispered, voice low and raw—meant only for her.

Liora’s breath hitched as she forced herself to meet his gaze. Her makeup was smudged into charcoal rivulets down her cheeks; her eyes were red from tears.

“Tyla,” she said, each syllable like a shard of glass. “My cellmate… my friend.”

The name hung between them, an accusation and a confession all at once. Kael’s grip tightened. Liora’s heart pounded so loud she could hear it inside her ears.

She recalled Tyla’s quick smile in the flicker of a prison corridor, the shared sketches in a tattered book, that they passed back and forth, the whispered promise: We survive another day.

Her fingers dug into Kael’s shirt. The truth—cold and impossible—flooded through her: three days ago she’d been standing on this exact floor, memorizing lines, practicing smiles, completely blind. All the while, they were pulling strings behind her back.

A strangled sound tore from her throat, something between a scream and a sob. Kael tightened his arms, his own body rigid with realization.

“They chose her…” Liora whispered, voice tremoring on the edge of collapse.

Soft and satisfied, the producer’s voice drifted through her earbud. “I thought you’d recognize her.”

Kael’s growl rolled through the studio, low and dangerous.

“You monsters.”

Before anyone could answer, he bent and lifted Liora straight out of the chair, pulling her against his chest like there was no world outside of holding her together. At five-foot-two, wrapped in his seven-foot frame, she looked impossibly small, her face buried against him, fingers still twisted in his shirt.

No one stopped him.

No one was stupid enough to try.

He strode off set, each step sharp with restrained violence, and when they reached the dressing room, he kicked the door open so hard the handle snapped clean off and clattered across the floor.

The assistant following behind barely flinched.

“Yes, yes, five-minute break, then we’ll resume filming—”

Kael pivoted on his heel, eyes blazing so fiercely they reddened around the edges. The assistant froze mid-sentence, paralyzed by the predator’s gaze. He snarled, crushing the hall’s air. The door slammed in the assistant’s face.

Silence reigned. No applause track. No cameras could be seen. Only the gentle hum of the dressing-room lights and Liora’s uneven breathing.

Kael set her down gently, like she was his most precious treasure and breakable, and for a moment neither of them moved.

Then she looked down at the dress and cursed under her breath. Her hands flew to the back of the dress, fingers shaking as she fought with the tiny buttons.

“I hate this thing.”

Her voice cracked on the words.

Kael dropped to his knees in front of her, bringing himself to her height, his massive hands surprisingly careful as he tried to work the ridiculous row of buttons down her back.

“They dress you like a teen boy’s fantasy,” he muttered, frowning at the impossible buttons. “Tiny evil hooks. I hate this thing too.”

Despite everything, a weak sound escaped her. Almost a laugh.

Kael’s lips softened.

“There you are.”

She froze at his words.

That part of herself—the real her—had almost slipped away.

Kael sighed dramatically at the stubborn, too-tiny buttons.

“I was trying to be respectful.”

Kael took a deep breath of resignation, then, with a swift motion, ripped the silk down the back in one satisfying tear.

The sound was deeply satisfying to both of them.

The ruined scarlet dress slid to the floor in a heap around her feet.

Liora stared at the discarded silk, then up at him. Kael shrugged. “I like the real you better.”

That did it.

Fresh tears filled her eyes, but this time they were softer, quieter, and when he opened his arms, she stepped into them without hesitation.

He wrapped himself around her completely, warm and solid and safe, his chin resting against the top of her head as she curled into him.

For a long moment, neither of them said anything.

He just held her.

His lips brushed the top of her head.

“We can leave,” he murmured. “Right now. Forget the contracts. Forget the show. Forget all of them. We disappear. I steal a boat. Thalen yells at me later.”

That pulled a real laugh from her, small and broken, but real.

She tipped her face up to look at him.

“You’d steal a boat?”

“For you? I’d steal the ocean.”

He kissed her then—softly, a promise.

His hand slid to her cheek, his thumb brushing away the last of her tears as he kissed her again, slower this time, deeper, and the panic loosened its grip. It didn’t disappear, but with Kael holding her, it felt survivable.

His mouth moved against hers with growing hunger, the softness shifting into something warmer, something heavier. His hands slid down her bare back. Before she could object, he lifted her, leaving her shoes behind, and carried her to the couch, which creaked under his weight. He pulled off the linen shirt from the studio and settled beside her in nothing but his jeans, heat radiating from him.

“Much better,” he murmured.

It dipped dangerously beneath his size when he followed, one knee pressing into the cushion beside her, then the other, the entire thing groaning under the weight of seven feet of man hiding a dragon under his skin and a very determined husband.

Kael looked down at her in nothing but her underthings, his gaze slow, heated, unapologetic.

Liora let out a shaky laugh, breathless as his hand traced up her thigh, over the bare skin the dress had left exposed, his touch deliberate enough to make her forget, for just a second, where they were.

His mouth found hers again.

Hotter now.

Hungrier.

The kind of kiss that promised distraction and very bad decisions on a cheap couch.

His body lowered over hers, all warmth and muscle and the dangerous comfort of being completely surrounded by him. The couch protested again with a dramatic creak.

Kael smirked against her lips.

“She’s holding.”

“Barely,” Liora whispered, and for the first time all day, she felt something dangerously close to normal.

Then came a sharp knock at the door.

A muffled voice followed.

“Mr. Dragon Man Person, can you please not break another couch this week?”

Liora slapped a hand over her mouth, trying not to laugh.

Kael closed his eyes like a man praying for patience.

Without looking, he grabbed the nearest pillow and launched it at the door.

“Get away from the door, you little p*****t,” he barked. “My wife and I are having a private marital crisis.”

That did it.

Liora laughed, full and helpless this time, the sound breaking through the heaviness like sunlight.

Kael looked down at her like that laugh was worth every broken camera and ruined couch in the building.

Maybe it was.

“I should clean my face,” she said, still smiling as she reached up to steal one more kiss before slipping from beneath him.

His hand caught her wrist gently, just for a second.

“Then you’re coming back.” Patting the couch beside him.

“If I don’t?”

His grin turned wicked.

“Then I start breaking furniture on purpose.”

A laugh slipped out of her, real this time, and she leaned down to kiss her hot husband once more before slipping toward the bathroom, bare feet quiet against the dressing room floor.

Kael stretched back against the protesting couch, watching her go like a dragon guarding his horde.

For the first time since Tyla’s face had filled that screen, the room felt almost still. Almost safe.

Then his phone rang.

One sharp vibration against the glass table.

Kael frowned.

Very few people had this number.

He reached for it, glanced at the screen—

Cassian.

That alone was enough to make him sit up.

Kael answered.

“What happened?”

There was no greeting.

No wasted words.

Just silence.

Then Cassian’s voice, too calm.

“I can’t reach Thalen.”

Kael’s expression changed instantly.

From the bathroom doorway, Liora stilled, one hand on the sink, makeup cloth forgotten in her fingers.

She knew that look.

Her stomach dropped.

Kael stood.

“What do you mean, you can’t reach him?”

Another pause.

Cassian again, colder this time.

“He was supposed to call six hours ago.”

Liora stepped forward. No. No way. Thalen always called. Always. Especially for her.

Kael’s jaw tightened as Cassian said:

“His last message was for you.”