All Chapters of BOUND BY THIS BLOOD CONTRACT : Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

POV: MaliaThe morning light didn't bring warmth; it bled through the dirt-streaked blinds in pale, greasy bands that did nothing to thaw the air.My knuckles were raw, skin peeled back at the joints from where I had scrubbed the floorboards until the water in the bucket turned grey. My spine felt like a rusted hinge, aching with every slow, deliberate breath I took. I sat at the edge of the battered oak table, pressing a chipped mug of bitter, lukewarm coffee between my palms to keep my fingers from trembling.Last night had broken something in the house. You could hear it in the silence, heavy, suffocating, and sour with the lingering reek of spilled rum, stale smoke, and fear.The front door didn't knock. It groaned inward on its iron hinges, letting in a gust of fog and the heavy, rhythmic tread of mud-caked boots.Reuben Vance stepped across the threshold.They called him "Rooster," though no one was stupid enough to say it to his face unless they wanted a tooth knocked through t

POV: MaliaThe air in the VIP lounge of The Onyx Vault was so thick with expensive cognac, tobacco, and velvet warmth that it choked me with every breath I took. Heavy crystal chandeliers hung low from the dark mahogany ceiling, casting amber pools of light onto the polished floorboards, while soft jazz hummed somewhere beneath the low murmur of dangerous, wealthy men.I tightened my grip on the silver serving tray in my hands, keeping my chin low and my shoulders tucked. The black silk uniform cut tight against my ribs, an effective disguise that made me look like just another nameless server gliding through the shadows of the syndicate’s private floor. Nobody looked at the servers here. In a place where multi-million-dollar land deals were signed with blood and illegal shipments were traded over vintage scotch, servants were part of the furniture.That was exactly what I needed.My pulse thudded against my collarbone, erratic and sharp. For three months, I had walked a razor-thin ti

POV: MaliaThe smell of wet asphalt and copper hit me before I even crossed the threshold of his private study.Jarrah was slouched on the edge of the heavy mahogany desk, his boots planted wide, his chin resting against his chest. The room was illuminated by a single floor lamp that cast long, golden shadows across the dark wood paneling. Outside, rain beat a relentless, rhythmic patter against the floor-to-ceiling windows, turning the sprawling estate grounds into a blur of dark trees and shifting shadows.He didn't look up when I stepped inside, but his body went rigid, a panther sensing a presence in the dark."I told Vance I didn't need a nurse," Jarrah growled, his voice a low, gravelly scrape that sounded like iron dragged over stone."Vance didn't send me," I said, keeping my voice steady as I closed the heavy oak door behind me, letting the latch click firmly into place. "He’s downstairs washing your driver's blood off the hood of the SUV. And unless you want to bleed out on

POV: MaliaThe air outside the east wing didn't offer the freedom I was looking for. It only made the cage feel larger.I pulled the woolen shawl tighter around my shoulders, keeping my head low as my boots crunched against the damp gravel of the upper courtyard. The sky above Jarrah’s estate was the color of bruised slate, heavy with rain that refused to fall. Down in the valley, a low bank of mist hovered over the pines, but up here, perched on this shelf of black granite, the wind hit with a brutal, razor-sharp edge.I took a slow, deliberate breath, forcing my lungs to expand against the knot of panic tightening in my throat. I couldn't afford to look panicked. To the guards stationed along the low stone ramparts, I needed to look like a restless guest taking the air. A woman lost in thought, not a prisoner measuring the height of the walls."Just walking," I whispered to myself, the words swallowed by the wind. "Just getting some fresh air."My gaze darted to the main archway fif

POV: MaliaThe pendulum of the grandfather clock in the corner swung back and forth with a dull, hollow rhythm. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. It sounded less like a marker of time and more like a warning, counting down the seconds until one of us made a fatal mistake.Across the long, mahogany dining table, Jarrah sat in the dim glow of two dying beeswax candles. He hadn't touched his food in twenty minutes. A plate of roasted venison and cold, salted roots sat undisturbed between us, the gravy congealing into a dark ring against the silver rim. He had his wine glass cradled between two long fingers, turning the glass slowly so the dark red liquid coated the crystal sides.He was watching me. Not with the heavy, brutish gaze of the guards outside the iron gate, but with a quiet, terrifying focus that made my skin prickle under my wool dress."You're not eating, Malia," Jarrah said quietly. His voice was smooth, carrying that calm, measured cadence that always made me feel as if he had rehea