All Chapters of BOUND BY THIS BLOOD CONTRACT : Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

POV: MaliaThe safehouse smelled of damp pine, old copper, and the lingering residue of cold iron.Outside, the storm had settled into a relentless, droning downpour that rattled against the double-paned glass of the living room windows. I sat on the edge of the worn velvet sofa, wrapping a thick strip of compression bandage tightly around my left arch. My body was an uneven map of aches, strained ligaments, bruised knuckles, and a deep, dull throbbing behind my ribs where a fallen beam had caught me two days ago.Before all of this before the running, the hiding, the constant shadow of a target painted across my back my body had belonged to the gym. Ten years of elite athletic training had taught me how to read my own anatomy like an instrument. I knew the precise threshold where muscle fiber yielded to tension; I knew how to explode from a dead stop into full extension in a fraction of a second; I knew how to land quietly enough to keep a ten-inch balance beam from swaying beneath m

POV MaliaThe heavy oak doors of the fortress groaned as they swung shut behind Malia, sealing out the cold wind that had followed her up the mountain path. She stood for a moment in the shadowed entry hall, the weight of her satchel pulling at her shoulder, and listened to the distant echo of boots on stone. Jarrah’s men moved like ghosts through the corridors, their presence a constant reminder that safety here was never absolute. She had returned, but the fortress no longer felt like a refuge. It felt like a cage with thicker walls.Jarrah waited at the foot of the main staircase, arms crossed, the scars along his jaw catching the torchlight. He did not smile. He rarely did when the subject was her protection. “The east wing is compromised,” he said without greeting. “Too many access points. Too many eyes that used to belong to people we trusted. You’re moving into the main bedroom wing. Tonight.”Malia’s fingers tightened on the strap of her bag. “Your wing.”“Our wing,” he correc

POV: JarrahThe air in the High Keep of Kilsyth was thick with the reek of damp wool, spilled ale, and the cold, sharp scent of iron. Outside the tall arched windows, a relentless highland rain hammered against the stained glass, blurring the pine-covered cliffs into dark, weeping silhouettes.Down in the Great Hall, two dozen lords and chieftains were shouting over one another, debating border lines and grain quotas like dogs fighting over a bone. But I wasn't listening to them anymore. My attention was fixed on the man standing by the hearth at the far end of the long gallery Lord Alastair.He hadn't raised his voice once all morning. He didn't need to. He simply stood there, his heavy fur mantle draped over his broad shoulders, watching the room with the quiet, terrifying patience of a hawk waiting for a field mouse to make a wrong step.When his grey eyes finally cut through the crowd and locked onto mine, a cold knot twisted deep in my gut. He didn't smile. He merely raised two f

POV: MaliaThe yellow beam of my lantern flickered, casting long, jittery shadows across the yellowed pages of the ledger. I stared at the dark ink until the letters began to blur together, my mind refusing to process the numbers written on the parchment.Callan Vance. Deceased: 14th of Frostfall.That was the date etched into his headstone in the lower graveyard. That was the date the city crier had announced his death to the quarter, the day his bloodied tunic had been returned to us in an iron box sealed by the coroner's office. I remembered that day with a clarity that still burned like lye in an open wound: the freezing rain, the smell of damp pine from his wooden casket, the heavy silence of my mother as she burned his personal papers in the hearth.I pulled out the folded leather journal I had carried inside my tunic, the private record kept by Callan's own commander, which I had spent two agonizing months sneaking out of the garrison office.I laid the commander's log flat bes

POV: MaliaThe pine rosin on my palms was beginning to mix with blood where the blisters had torn open against the hickory grip of the sword.It was past midnight. The lower training pit was cold, smelling of old damp earth, lye, and the bitter tang of wet iron from the weapon racks. Up on the battlements, the night watchmen were changing shifts, their boot heels clattering faintly across the slate roofs, but down here under the vaulted stone arches, the only sound was the rhythm of my own ragged breath and the dull thud of timber striking timber.I struck the wooden post again. High guard. Slash left. Pivot. Strike.My shoulders burned, a dull, throbbing ache that pulled behind my collarbones, but I didn't stop. If I stopped, the quiet came back. And when the quiet came back, my mind immediately wandered to the upper wing of the manor, to the quiet, suffocating bedroom with the massive canopy bed that neither of us touched, and the silver band sitting on my bedside table like a cold,