All Chapters of BLOOD FOR A BRIDE : Chapter 121 - Chapter 130

ASARAIAH KAINE Waking up hurt in ways I didn’t have names for. Not physically. Physically I felt… powerful. Too powerful. Like my body had been upgraded while my consciousness was still lagging behind. But mentally? It felt like someone had ripped open a door in my skull and left it swinging in the wind. I woke on the couch in the Kaine medical suite — white lights, polished chrome, minimalist furniture Malrik pretended he didn’t choose. Calla sat at the foot of the couch, curled in a blanket, still wearing the same clothes she’d been kidnapped in. She looked like she’d woken from a nightmare she wasn’t done having. Drayan leaned against the wall, arms crossed, head down. Kavin lurked near the door, pacing. Gaya paced near the window, muttering a prayer under her breath she didn’t think I could hear. But none of them mattered. Because Malrik was sitting beside me, elbows on his knees, head bowed in both hands, looking like a king who just learned his kingdom was about to

ASARAIAH KAINE Power doesn’t announce itself when it arrives. It creeps in. Slow. Subtle. Uninvited. Like a second pulse behind your own. I felt it when I woke — a hum under my skin, low and restless, like something ancient stretching inside my bones. The mansion was quieter than usual. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that means every living thing in the house is holding its breath. I sat up slowly. Calla slept curled beside me on the couch where she cried herself out. Gaya had spent half the night beside the door like a sentry, whispering prayer in a language older than this country. When I stood, she lifted her head. “You should rest.” “I can’t.” “You shouldn’t push—” “I’m not pushing,” I said. “I’m bleeding.” Her eyes softened. “You mean changing.” “And killing.” She exhaled. “Not yet.” ‘Not yet’ was doing heavy lifting these days. I tightened my ponytail and headed for the door. Gaya reached out, grabbing my wrist. “You’re going to him?” “I’m going to the cou

-Asaraiah Kaine- By the time the call came in, the city had that kind of rain that made everything look cleaner than it really was. I was in the upstairs lounge with Calla, pretending to watch some trash show while she braided my hair and pretended she wasn’t flinching every time thunder rolled. The TV flickered over a room that wasn’t really living, just waiting. Her fingers stilled near my temple when my phone buzzed on the coffee table. Kavin. Priority channel. My stomach tightened. I slid off the couch before she could ask. “Asa?” Calla’s voice followed me. “If you walk out of this room without telling me—” “I’ll tell you when I come back,” I said, already moving. “Not funny.” I stopped in the doorway and looked back at her. She was curled into the corner of the sofa in one of my hoodies, hair in a messy bun, eyes too big for the brave smile on her face. They had touched her once. I wasn’t letting the world forget that. “I’m going to work,” I said. “I’ll come back

-Asaraiah Kaine- The mansion was too quiet when we returned. Not empty—quiet. Quiet with intention. The kind of silence that feels like someone has pressed two hands over its mouth and told it not to scream. I stepped inside first. Rain dripped from my clothes, pooling onto the floor, leaving a thin, dark trail across the marble. My arm had stopped bleeding; the skin was already smooth, as if nothing had cut it in the first place. Behind me, Malrik walked in with a stride that didn’t fit the stillness at all—violent energy wrapped inside a black coat and soaked hair, a man half an inch away from ripping the night apart again. Drayan shut the door last, locking out the rain and the ghosts that had followed us home. Gaya appeared at the top of the staircase. Her eyes swept over the three of us—wet, bruised, blood-scented—and she didn’t bother to hide her alarm. “You weren’t attacked,” she said. “You were hunted.” “That’s one word for it,” I muttered. “Calla is in the guest wi

Asaraiah Kaine — I woke to the sensation of warmth. Not sunlight—there was none. The curtains were still drawn, the room dim, the mansion sleeping in that strange quiet it held after violence. No, the warmth was something else entirely. Something real. Solid. Breathing. Malrik’s arm was wrapped around my waist. It wasn’t tight, but it was secure—like he’d molded himself into the exact shape necessary to keep me from slipping into whatever darkness had pulled at me these past days. His palm rested flat against my stomach, fingers spread, steady. His breathing was slow, a calm rhythm that contrasted the usual sharp stillness of his body when he slept. I didn’t move. Not because I was afraid to wake him, but because some fragile part of me was terrified that if I shifted even an inch, this moment would crumble. Like it wasn’t meant to exist in the daylight. Like the morning would demand a price for last night’s softness. He felt me wake before I made a sound. His thumb brushed