BOUND TO THE AVERNUS FAMILY

Chapter 15: Davion's Files

I am sitting at the polished mahogany reading table in the third-floor library, staring at exactly four years of relentless, documented obsession.

Davion Avernus has laid his entire archive bare. It is staggering in its sheer scope and terrifying in its precision. There are dozens of thick, leather-bound folders, loose sheets of parchment covered in sharp, aggressive marginalia, and stacks of translations spanning four different ancient dialects.

He is not just a young, arrogant dragon-shifter with a high mist recovery rate and a penchant for mirrors. He is a rigorous, deeply systematic academic.

I trace my fingers over a meticulously cross-referenced chart detailing the dead ends he has hit. He has documented three distinct research directions that produced absolutely nothing but wasted months. He has documented one direction—the one involving my bloodline—that produced the concept of the 'seam', but no functional mechanism to actually exploit it.

I am actively cataloguing his dedication when the heavy library doors open with a soft, deliberate click.

Dr. Eshan steps into the dusty shafts of afternoon sunlight.

He does not apologize for the interruption. He walks directly to the reading table, his sharp eyes flicking from the sprawling research to my face.

"A necessary medical addendum," Dr. Eshan states, his tone purely clinical, ignoring Davion entirely. "As your physiological adaptation accelerates, your body will begin to generate its own arousal independent of our scheduled daily requirements."

I look at him, my pen freezing over my open notebook. "And?"

"You may only achieve *rgasm with one of the three partners present," he instructs flatly. "Solo arousal draws ambient mist from the estate directly into your bloodstream. Without the biological counterpart of their c*m or their direct physical contact to trigger the processing enzyme, the mist cannot be metabolized. It will pool and become highly toxic within minutes."

I stare at the doctor. "You are telling me I cannot touch myself."

"I am telling you that doing so will induce Stage Three mist poisoning before you can finish," Dr. Eshan replies. "Do not attempt it."

It is delivered strictly as standard medical protocol, not as a controlling command, but my analytical mind instantly registers it as a severe, terrifying constraint. I am no longer allowed to own my own pleasure. My body’s most basic autonomous functions have been entirely co-opted by the curse.

Dr. Eshan turns on his heel and leaves the library.

The grandfather clock in the distant hallway chimes the evening hour exactly as the heavy door clicks shut.

The mist requirement surges into the room. The ambient air turns instantly dense, metallic, and heavy in my lungs. Beside me, Davion’s skin flushes with blistering, structural dragon heat. The temperature in the library spikes sharply.

He doesn't clear the research off the mahogany table. He simply pulls my heavy wooden chair back, drops to his knees, and strips my lower half with hot, efficient hands. The blistering heat radiating from his broad chest sears against my bare thighs.

He parts my legs, aligns his rigid, thick c*ck at my entrance, and lifts me slightly by my hips to pull me forward onto his lap as he sits back against the heavy wooden chair.

I gasp, my hands gripping his burning shoulders as he sinks his heavy girth deep into my soaking p*ssy.

Davion sets a deep, deliberate pace, his hot hips driving upward into my core. But tonight, his running commentary completely shifts. He doesn't narrate the dark flush on my chest or the way my sl*ck internal muscles frantically grip his thick shaft.

Instead, he talks about the archive.

"The third dialect," Davion murmurs hotly, driving his blistering size into me with a relentless rhythm. "The root word for 'seam' shares a phonetic structure with 'bloodline.' It isn't just a physical tear in the curse."

He thrusts deeper, hitting a bundle of nerves that makes my spine arch violently.

"It requires a specific genetic key," he groans, his hot hands gripping my waist to pull me harder against his thrusts. "A lock built into the original magic."

I discover, to my profound shock, that I vastly prefer this version of his commentary. The filthy, devastating physical reality of his massive c*ck stretching me open, combined directly with the high-level academic decoding of the curse that is currently keeping me captive, is an incredibly potent aphrodisiac.

The unpurified mist from his system transfers into my bloodstream, colliding violently with his blistering body heat.

"Davion," I choke out, my nails digging into his shoulders as the heavy, coiled pressure at the base of my spine hits a critical threshold.

"Hold it," he commands softly, thrusting to the absolute hilt. "Think about the translation. Think about breaking it."

I shatter completely. A broken cry tears from my throat as a violent *rgasm rips through my core, frantically milking his hot length. Davion groans in absolute, delighted surrender, unloading a heavy, scorching flood of c*m deep inside my womb.

The mist processes in a massive, overwhelming wave of freezing relief.

The stark, silver-blue light projects from my eyes. It sweeps across the shadowed library, illuminating the scattered research papers. It reflects off the glass of the framed maps and casts multiple, luminescent reflections of my own flushed face across the polished mahogany table.

Ten minutes later, the air is clean and the blistering heat has faded from his skin.

Davion is standing by the window, adjusting the cuffs of his dark shirt. I am sitting back at the reading table, my legs still trembling slightly, sorting through the very first box of his archive.

I am looking at the oldest files. The origin point of his obsession.

I pull out a thick manila folder labeled Eclipse Lineage. Inside, buried beneath a stack of faded birth records and heavily redacted estate ledgers, is a single photograph.

I freeze.

It is a candid, black-and-white picture of a woman sitting on a stone bench. She is not young. She is definitely not me. But my cataloguing mind instantly recognizes the sharp, severe angle of her jaw, the high cut of her cheekbones, and the unmistakable, piercing shape of her ice-blue eyes.

It is my grandmother.

She died when I was very young. I barely remember her voice, but I know her face from the few photographs my mother kept hidden in a drawer.

I stare at the picture, the residual coolness of the processed mist turning into ice water in my veins. Davion had this in his possession before I ever crossed the gates of the Avernus estate. He was researching my specific bloodline while she was still alive.

"Davion," I say, my voice perfectly level despite the sudden, frantic hammering of my heart. "When did you find this picture?"

He turns from the window, his amber eyes settling on the photograph trembling in my hand. He doesn't hesitate. He doesn't try to soften the data.

"Three years ago," he answers quietly.

My analytical mind instantly snaps the timeline into a terrifying, rigid sequence.

Three years ago. That is the exact same year Dr. Eshan told me my regular physician started secretly drawing my blood during annual physicals and sending it to the Vael Commission. Davion started looking into my grandmother's specific lineage at the exact same moment a shadow institution started actively monitoring my biology.

I carefully set the black-and-white photograph down on the mahogany table.

Either this is a monumental, impossible coincidence, or I have been the subject of someone else's research project since long before I even knew I was a subject.

I look up at Davion’s steady, unblinking gaze.

I decide, with terrifying certainty, that coincidence is highly unlikely.