All Chapters of BOUND BY THIS BLOOD CONTRACT : Chapter 21 - Chapter 30

POV: JarrahThe scent of salt, rotting kelp, and cold diesel clung to the night air like grease. Down on Dock Nine, the rusted iron cranes groaned under the weight of the shipping containers, swaying against a bruised, moonless sky.I stood in the shadows of the upper catwalk, my leather coat wrapped tightly against the bite of the harbor wind. Beside me, Malia stood motionless, her eyes fixed on the black water below. Her breathing was uneven, her shoulders tense beneath her heavy wool jacket. For three weeks, since the nightmare in the lower wards, the distance between us had been a physical chasm, a cold silence carved by secrets, blood, and broken promises.I had brought her here tonight not to flex power, but to offer a fragile olive branch. This Calaby shipment contained emergency medical supplies, winter grain, and legal documents meant for the refugee settlements in the south proof that I was trying to steer the network away from the bloodshed that had nearly destroyed us both

POV: MaliaThe lock gave way with a sound no louder than a snapping twig, but in the dead silence of the east wing, it echoed like a gunshot inside my head.I froze, my fingers glued to the thin iron lockpick. I held my breath until my lungs burned, listening to the heavy, suffocating silence of the manor. Outside, the night wind howled against the stained-glass windows, driving cold rain against the stone walls. Nothing moved in the corridor. No footsteps. No whispers.Slowly, I eased the heavy mahogany door open just enough to slip inside, easing it shut behind me until the latch clicked.Jarrah’s study smelled of old leather, crushed pipe tobacco, and the bitter, metallic tang of dried ink. It was an intimidating room even in broad daylight, dominated by high, arched bookshelves that stretched toward a vaulted ceiling. At night, bathed only in the pale, sickly moonlight filtering through the storm-clouded window, it felt like entering the mouth of a sleeping beast.My heart hammere

POV Malia's The lights along Southbank stretched gold over black water, and I hated how beautiful it all looked. Beauty had a way of dressing up rot until you couldn't tell the difference anymore, and tonight, rot wore a tuxedo and called itself Jarrah."Smile," he murmured against my ear, his hand resting at the small of my back like it belonged there. "They're watching."They always were. That was the point of a night like this a ballroom full of people who traded in things that could kill you, all of them smiling like they sold flowers for a living. I smiled too. I'd gotten good at it. Good enough that sometimes I scared myself, how easily the mask slid on."Who's watching?" I asked, keeping my voice low, my eyes on the crowd instead of on him."Everyone who matters." He steered me past a cluster of men in dark suits, their laughter too loud, too rehearsed. "And a few who don't. You'll learn to tell them apart."I already could. It was Jarrah I still hadn't learned to read, and a

Malia's POVThe music was still in my ears when the world tore open.I could still feel the ghost of Jarrah's hand at the small of my back, the memory of turning under the ballroom lights with his fingers laced through mine, his mouth close enough to my ear that I'd forgotten, for three whole songs, that men like him didn't get to have nights like that. I was still wearing that feeling like a second skin when he pulled me out through the side entrance, his jaw set in a way I'd learned to be afraid of, and told me to walk, not run, and not look back at the cameras.I should have known the night wasn't finished with us."Get in," he said, already moving, his hand fisted in the fabric at my elbow instead of the gentle grip he'd used on the dance floor. The valet had the lead car idling at the curb, black and gleaming under the porte-cochère lights, and for a half-second I resented him for how easily he could switch from the man who'd held me like I was something worth being careful with,

Jarrah's POVThe whiskey burned less than the silence did.I poured a second glass I didn't need, just to have something for my hands to do besides reach for her. Across the low table, she'd curled into the corner of the couch with her knees drawn up, the firelight catching the side of her face in a way that made it hard to keep my voice steady, let alone my thoughts."You don't have to tell me," she said. Soft. Too soft, like she already knew I was about to anyway."I know." I turned the glass in my hand, watching the amber catch the flames. "That's the problem. I want to."Outside, the wind pushed against the shutters, a low groan that matched something in my chest. I'd spent six years learning how to say nothing about what happened over there how to smile at dinners, shake hands at ceremonies, let people call me a hero without correcting them. It was easier that way. Easier to be the man they needed at the border talks, steady and unshaken, than to be the man who still woke some n