All Chapters of Bound to the Enemy’s Bed: Chapter 151 - Chapter 160

Darkness had texture.Not the absence of light, not the blindness of shadow—this was something tactile, alive, aware. It slid over Elaria’s skin like a second pulse, a second breath, tasting her the way fire tastes oxygen.And then—That voice.That impossible, steady voice:“Mine.”The word hit her like a hand closing around the back of her neck.Elaria gasped.Or the world gasped with her—she couldn’t tell. The dark rippled outward in rings, each one sending a tremor through the void until every inch of it was vibrating with recognition.No shape.No face.But the voice pressed closer.“Elaria.”It spoke her name like the world had waited centuries just to say it properly.She tried to move—her limbs answered, but wrong, like they were remembering themselves in reverse. The darkness split around her, threads of it pulling away in jagged lines, revealing the faintest suggestion of form beneath her feet.A floor.A path.A web of fractured light stitched across an ocean of void.Her h

She couldn’t breathe.Not because breath was impossible here — breath was irrelevant — but because the truth pressing against her ribs had stolen every illusion of air her mind still clung to.You were never born, the voice had said.You were remembered.The words lived in her bones now, vibrating like a tuning fork struck by a divine hand. Elaria drifted in a space that was not space at all — a vast chamber of light where nothing cast a shadow because everything was the shadow. The walls, if there were walls, moved with the slow, tidal pulse of memory reformatting itself.She was suspended, body half-formed, half-light, threaded together by strands of blue and silver that pulsed like veins. The filaments seemed to be stitching her into a shape she no longer recognized. Her skin shimmered with shifting fragments of the selves she had worn across lifetimes — girl, daughter, healer, anchor, weapon. Each one flickered across her body like pages of a book being flipped too fast to read.A

The moment the world heaved beneath her—when the sky cracked like bone and the ground folded itself into a spiraling corridor of light—Elaria did not fall.She was pulled.Dragged as if by a hand she could not see, a will older than memory, older than the Veil, older even than the gods who shaped it. Her fingers clawed at the collapsing air, finding nothing. Her body dissolved into ribbons of sensation—heat, cold, grief, the echo of Kael’s last breath, the shudder of Draven’s fractured form, the bone-deep ache of a name she had carried for centuries without knowing it was her own.Lunastra.The word still reverberated through her like a wound.It wasn’t a name, not fully. It was a return.And now something—someone—was dragging her toward the place where that return had been written long before she was flesh.The light around her dimmed. The spiral corridor narrowed. Then, as if a curtain had been drawn back, she dropped into darkness.A darkness that had shape.A darkness that breathe

The world did not rebuild after the scream.It only held its breath.Elaria lay suspended in the suspended not-space, a place where matter had never learned how to behave. Light curled around her like silk stripped of its memory, and every thread that touched her skin whispered a name she did not recognize yet felt like loss.Her body was no longer falling.It was remembering the shape of falling.And somewhere far beyond her — or maybe within her — the echo of Kael and Draven’s fused consciousness strained against the walls of the realm.The last thing she’d heard before the rupture sealed was Kael’s voice shouting her name, and Draven’s voice buried beneath it, deeper, ancient, burning her bones with its fury.Now… she heard nothing.No — that wasn’t true.She heard breathing.Not hers.Something in the dark inhaled.Slowly.Deeply.Like a predator savoring the scent of prey it had waited a lifetime to find.Elaria forced her limbs to respond. They felt distant, as if sculpted from

The world had stopped breathing.Not paused. Not frozen.Stopped.As if it had finally grown weary of pretending to be real.Elaria stood in the hollow place where the Vale used to exist, though nothing around her remembered the name Vale anymore. The ground beneath her feet rippled in slow, liquid convulsions—glass, soil, memory, and shadow all churning together as if stirred by a hand too large to imagine.Above her, the sky pulsed.Not with light.With thought.She felt its awareness crawling across her skin, sliding beneath her ribs, unfurling through her mind like roots claiming earth. It did not speak, not yet, but its presence was an ocean pressing downward, curious, patient, hungry.Kael and Draven’s merged consciousness—whatever remained of them—moved somewhere inside that vastness.She could almost hear them.Kael’s panic, sharp and bright as lightning striking bone.Draven’s fury, molten, pulsing like a second heart.Two rivers colliding and becoming one storm.And she—She