Todos los capítulos de Bound by blood and silk: Capítulo 11 - Capítulo 20

WrenThe dead don’t make noise when they walk.Lord Alistair Sterling stepped into the dim hearth-light, his velvet cloak sweeping the floor like a shroud.Three years of mourning. Three years of blood money, legal battles, and my slow descent into a manufactured hell all built upon the foundation of his grave.And he was standing right in front of me.“You…”My voice barely carried across the room.“Lower the poker, my sweet girl,” Alistair said softly.His steel-colored eyes swept over Kaelen before returning to me.“You’ve done wonderfully. Far better than I could have hoped.”Kaelen stepped in front of me, his body rigid, the tranquilizer still fighting his nervous system.“Lord Sterling. The whole city believes you died in the fire at the Silk Exchange.”“The city believes what it is fed, Doctor.”Alistair moved closer, regarding Kaelen like an inconvenience.“Beatrix and Julian played their parts splendidly. They thought they were driving my daughter mad to steal her inheritance

WrenThe world shattered in a deafening roar of iron chains and exploding crystal.The central chandelier crashed onto the mahogany table between us, splitting the wood down the middle. Hot wax splashed across the white linen as the candles caught the spilled wine.Smoke surged into the air.Lautaro reacted instantly.He threw himself backward, his boots skidding across the marble as his broadsword cleared its sheath.“Guards!” he bellowed.I didn’t wait.The moment the iron frame struck the table, the bone-handled spike was in my right hand. I dropped beneath the black haze, my silk skirts pooling around me.The dining hall doors burst open as the outer guards rushed inside.“Secure the windows! Check the doors!” Lautaro shouted.Through the smoke, a dark shape moved near the shattered hearth.Not a guard.Not Lautaro.A cold, calloused hand wrapped around my wrist, right where the silver-and-red weave burned against my skin.I whipped the spike around, aiming for the figure’s throat

WrenThe charcoal note burned to ash in the hearth long before the first carriage wheels ground against the wet cobblestones below.Page thirty-four. Don’t.Three words from Kaelen, written in soot and desperate haste, hung over me like a shadow as the heavy iron doors of the Church of San Francisco swallowed the rain-drenched evening.The ancient red-stone walls smelled of cold incense, melted tallow, and wet wool. Outside, Santiago drowned beneath a downpour that turned the streets into rivers of mud. Inside, the air carried a different kind of suffocating weight.The Syndicate had gathered.Every aisle was packed with dark coats, high silk collars, and calculating eyes. Men and women who ruled the shadows of the city sat in quiet rows, guarded by armed men whose hands never strayed far from their blades or leather holsters.This was no holy union.It was an execution framed in gold leaf and flickering candlelight.I stood at the back of the central nave, the heavy train of my blood

Rayen The blood drained from my face so fast the cathedral seemed to tilt on its axis.Make sure you don’t miss.The five words hung between us, heavier than the suffocating weight of my silk train, lethal as the razor digging into my side. My breath caught in my throat, a sharp, audible gasp swallowed whole by the grand organ’s final, resounding chord.Lautaro didn’t pull away immediately. He let his lips hover against the shell of my ear for one agonizing second longer, letting me feel the steady, deliberate beat of his pulse against my jaw.He knew.God help me, he knew about the steel pressed against my ribs.When he finally stepped back, his face was an unreadable mask of cold, regal composure. Not a single muscle in his jaw twitched. If anyone in the pews had been watching, they would have seen a proud groom whispering a sweet, secretive devotion to his new bride.My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.My mind raced, clawing for answers.How?Who told him?Did s

RayénThe air inside the private terminal smelled of expensive leather, aviation fuel, and the metallic tang of an impending disaster.Across the marble coffee table, Mateo hadn’t looked at me in twenty minutes. He sat with his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped so tightly his knuckles looked carved from ivory. Every few seconds, the rhythmic tapping of his shoe against the polished floor rattled through my ribs like a ticking detonator.He thought I didn’t know about the transfer orders stamped with his family’s crest sitting in my coat pocket. He thought I was still his loyal protector, the shadow paid to bleed for him, completely blind to the fact that his father had slated me for liquidation the moment our feet touched Chilean soil.“The storm clearing over the Andes is delaying our takeoff,” Mateo said, his voice flat, stripped of the warmth that used to bleed through when it was just the two of us in the training rooms. He didn’t look up. “Another thirty minutes.”“I