Chapter 8- The Rules of the Bond

IVY’S POV:

I wake up sweating.

The sheets are tangled around my legs like they’re trying to hold me down. My skin feels too tight, too flushed, like I’ve been in the sun for hours even though the room is dark. I kick off the blankets, gasping for air that tastes too thin, then sit up and grab the edge of the bed like it might keep me from floating out of my own body.

The room is spinning.

No. Not spinning. Pulling.

There’s a tugging sensation deep in my chest, like someone’s tied a rope around my ribs and they’re yanking on it. Drawing me somewhere I don’t want to go.

I stagger to my feet, my legs unsteady. My feet are bare. The floorboards are freezing under them, but I don’t care. I barely feel it through the heat radiating from my core.

Something is wrong with me.

I tug at my hoodie with trembling fingers. It clings to my skin, soaked through with sweat that shouldn’t exist in this cold house. My shirt underneath is damp too, sticking to the mark under my ribs—the one that hasn’t stopped throbbing since I said his name.

*Cassian.*

It pulses now.

A dull, steady beat like a second heart. My whole side burns with each rhythm, spreading warmth through my body that feels foreign and invasive.

I stumble into the bathroom and flick the light on, blinking against the sudden glare. I grab the mirror and flip it open with shaking hands, lift my shirt, and angle it toward the mark.

There it is.

The mark.

No longer faint. No longer just a whisper of light beneath my skin.

Now it glows. Sharp and golden and alive, like something carved into me is waking up. The edges pulse with each beat of my heart, and I can see intricate patterns within it that weren’t there before. Symbols that look almost like writing in a language I don’t recognize.

I drop the mirror.

It hits the tile floor, bounces once, and lands face down with a sharp crack.

I don’t pick it up.

I don’t even look at it.

Because my legs are already moving.

The pulling sensation intensifies, dragging me forward like I’m a puppet on strings. I push out of the bathroom, stumbling slightly. Out of the bedroom, down the narrow hallway. Down the stairs, my bare feet slapping against the wooden steps. The house is still dark—early morning, or maybe dawn—but I don’t care about the time.

My hand hits the front door. The brass knob is cool against my palm. My palm is fire.

I twist it and pull.

The door swings open with a soft creak.

Fog curls around my ankles like it’s been waiting for me, thick and silver in the pre-dawn light. The air outside should be cold—I should be shivering in my thin pajama shorts and half-unzipped hoodie—but I don’t feel it.

I don’t feel cold at all.

The pulling sensation grows stronger, more insistent. It’s not just in my chest anymore. It’s everywhere. In my bones, in my blood, in the very marrow of me.

I step outside.

Barefoot onto the dew-soaked porch.

The wood is wet and rough under my feet, but I barely notice. I cross the porch in three quick steps. My feet touch wet grass, and the sensation sends a shock through my system. Not unpleasant, exactly, but overwhelming. Like every nerve ending has been turned up to eleven.

I take one step toward the tree line. Then another.

The forest looms before me, dark and ancient and waiting. The fog is thicker there, weaving between the massive trunks like living things. And somewhere in those shadows, something is calling to me.

Someone.

*Come to me.*

The voice isn’t spoken aloud, but I hear it anyway. Feel it in my bones.

*Come home.*

That’s when I hear the other voice. The real one.

“Ivy.”

Elsie.

I freeze, the spell breaking like glass.

She’s standing in the doorway behind me. Her usually perfect hair is mussed, her face pale without makeup. She’s not holding her usual morning mug. She’s not wearing her robe. There’s no trace of her usual sarcasm or carefully maintained distance.

Just urgency. And something that looks like fear.

“I—” I start to say, but the words won’t come. My throat feels raw, like I’ve been screaming, though I don’t remember making a sound.

She steps toward me slowly, like she’s approaching something dangerous. Or something wild.

Her bare feet make no sound on the wet porch as she moves closer, hands held out in front of her like she’s trying to calm a spooked animal.

“I was afraid this would happen,” she says quietly. Her voice is different too. Softer. More careful than I’ve ever heard it.

I blink at her, trying to focus. The pulling sensation hasn’t stopped completely, but her presence seems to anchor me somehow. Like she’s thrown me a lifeline.

“I don’t—what’s happening to me?”

My voice comes out as barely more than a whisper. I look down at my hands and realize they’re shaking. My nails are digging into my palms so hard I can feel the crescent-shaped marks they’re leaving behind.

Elsie doesn’t answer right away. She takes another careful step closer, and I can see her studying my face. Looking for something.

Then she says the words that make my skin crawl and my stomach drop:

“You’re feeling the bond.”

She doesn’t drag me inside.

She doesn’t have to.

The moment she says those words, I step back from the tree line like I’ve just come out of a trance. The pulling sensation doesn’t disappear entirely, but it lessens enough that I can think clearly again. My hands still shake, my skin still feels too hot, but my feet obey my commands instead of some invisible force.