Lahat ng Kabanata ng BOUND BY THIS BLOOD CONTRACT : Kabanata 111 - Kabanata 120

​POV: Jarrah​The manicured gardens of the Kilsyth courtyard had turned into a slaughterhouse.​Tracer rounds cut crimson streaks through the low-hanging fog, illuminating the manicured hedges, marble statues, and gravel pathways in eerie, stroboscopic flashes. The air was thick with the suffocating stench of sulfur, burning rubber, and raw dirt torn up by heavy boots.​I ducked behind the base of a shattered marble fountain as a burst of automatic fire chipped long splinters from the stone above my head. Dust and concrete powder filled my mouth.​To my left, three of my best enforcers advanced behind a portable ballistic shield, laying down suppressive fire toward the elevated courtyard balcony. Kilsyth mercenaries were dug in behind concrete balustrades, throwing everything they had to hold the line.​"Boss! You're hit!" one of my lieutenants, Marcus, shouted as he slid through the wet mud to crouch beside me behind the fountain. He was staring at my left arm, where a deep tear in m

​Pov Jarrah ​The grain of the ancient oak front doors of Alastair’s estate was thick enough to stop a bullet, but it was never built to withstand a shaped charge placed by a man who had spent a decade learning how to unmake fortresses.​I pressed the magnetic housing against the iron ring of the right-hand panel, the cold steel biting through my leather gloves. My breathing was slow, measured, the cadence of a pulse trained to ignore adrenaline. Around me, the night air carried the sharp, metallic tang of ozone and approaching rain. Down the gravel drive, the idling engine of our transport hummed a low, bass note against the silence of the private grounds. I didn’t look back at the team I’d left in the shadows. This part belonged to me. It always had, ever since the courtyard gates fell.​"Ten seconds," I murmured into the comms, my thumb hovering over the detonator.​My fingers brushed the silver band on my left hand, a habit born of an obsession that had consumed every rational tho

​POV: Malia ​The sound of his boots was something I had known since I was a child. It was the rhythm of a tyrant pacing his kingdom, the cadence of a man who measured his worth by how much he could control, break, or destroy.​When the heavy iron key turned in the lock, my heart didn't stutter; it ignited.​For days, this cell had been a tomb. The damp stone had seeped into my bones, and the heavy chain around my wrists had rubbed my skin raw until every movement sent white-hot agony shooting up my forearms. But pain is a wonderful teacher. It teaches you what you can live through, and more importantly, what you are willing to tear apart to escape.​While they were upstairs panicking over the explosions and the screams, I had spent the last twenty minutes working the skin off my left thumb, using the friction of the coarse iron link and a slick film of old rust and blood to slip the cuff over my knuckle. It felt like tearing my own hand off, the cartilage grinding and popping, but wh

​POV: Jarrah​The air in Kilsyth Manor's lower catacombs didn't just smell like ancient stone and damp earth; it tasted like rust and cheap sulfur. Every breath I pulled into my lungs burned, raw and laced with the sharp, metallic tang of cold iron.​My boot heels slammed against the uneven flagstones, each stride vibrating up my spine. The subterranean corridor stretched out before me, a narrow throat of jagged rock lit only by the sickly orange glow of emergency strip lighting mounted low against the floor. Up ahead, three flights up, the rest of the world was falling apart, but down here in the dark, time felt frozen, twisted, and suffocating.​Where is she?​The thought pounded behind my eyes like a hammer on an anvil. My pulse roared in my ears, drowning out the muffled thud of structural tremors vibrating through the cavern walls. I tightened my grip on the heavy-gauge pump-action shotgun in my hands, the textured grip slick beneath my calloused palm.​Crack.​The sound echoed d

​POV: Jarrah​The ground didn't just shake; it groaned a sickening, grinding sound of ancient granite shearing under impossible pressure. High above our heads, inside the hidden cavities of Kilsyth Manor's foundation, the heavy explosive charges Alastair had set years ago were detonating in a pre-programmed, catastrophic cascade.​Dust rained down from the concrete ceiling of the cell, dropping in thick grey sheets that instantly obscured the dim overhead light.​"Jarrah!" Malia gasped, her small hands clutching tightly at my shoulders.​I looked down at her. Her face was pale beneath the grime, her dark eyes wide with sudden terror, but she wasn't panicking. She was looking at me, trusting me completely with her life. That trust felt like a physical weight pressing down on my chest, fiercer and more consuming than any danger around us.​"Hold onto me," I snapped, my voice harsh with authority as I dragged her upward into a crouch. "Whatever happens, Malia, do not let go."​A massive