The Book Boundaries Novels & Stories

What I wanted was considerably more specific than that. I wanted him to understand that when I said mine I was not speaking casually. I wanted there to be no question in his mind, after tonight, about where he stood or what he was to me or whether the next version of me he encountered was going to hand it back with careful words. No more handing back. I pulled the ancient pack history book back toward me and found my paragraph again. Pre-treaty boundary law. My mind drifted immediately back to Blake's face in the steam.

I whisper, though I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince. His breath hitches just barely. Then his hands come up, not to return the hug but to grip my arms and pull them away. “Leona,” he says, his voice firm. “Boundaries.” I step back slowly, my hands falling to my sides as a flicker of something sharp moves through me, hurt, confusion, maybe both. “Boundaries? I have been telling you that for years,” I shoot back, and he laughs, running fingers through his hair like he is tired.

BOUND BY THE VEIN CONTENT WARNING This novel contains material intended for mature audiences only (18+). It includes themes and scenes involving: Graphic violence Blood and feeding Sexual content Obsession and psychological manipulation Power imbalance and coercive dynamics Death and dark supernatural horror elements 🚫Reader discretion is strongly advised. COPYRIGHT/DISCLAIMER This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

The first sovereign's careful handwriting open between them like a map of somewhere neither of them had been. "Who?" she said. Quietly. Knowing. He held her gaze and didn't look away this time. The moment stretched, charged, still, full of the specific pressure of two controlled people standing at the exact edge of something and choosing, very deliberately, not to step over it yet. Her hand rested on the open page of the book. His was on the shelf beside her, close enough that if either of them moved. Her resonance spiked. It was external. Directional. The same north-east frequency from earlier but different now — not approaching, but pressing, close enough to register as individual pulses.

"It's the true word for it. There's a difference between work and this, between the office and here, and I'm trying to keep them separate so I can survive the office. That's not the same as pulling away from you." "Isn't it?" He slowly came around the counter, that unhurried way he had that made my heart speed up whether I wanted it to or not. "I have seen people set boundaries my whole life. Do you know what a boundary is, really? It's a fence you build one panel at a time so that when you finally walk away, you can tell yourself the fence was always there. That you never really let them in at all." "That's not what I'm doing."

The word irritated me. “I was laughing,” I said calmly. “Is that forbidden now?” His jaw tightened. “This isn’t about laughter.” “No?” I stepped closer. Not enough to touch. Just enough to show him my boldness. “Then what is it about?” The space between us throbbed. He held my gaze. Longer than safe. “It is about boundaries,” he said finally. “Yours?” I asked softly. Or mine? He exhaled sharply. “You are aware of what you are doing.”

Mine was frantic and shallow; Killian’s was deep and dangerously steady. The air in the library smelled of old parchment and expensive leather, a sharp contrast to the perfume and champagne outside. It was a cold room, but the heat radiating from Killian was enough to burn. He did not turn on the lights. He did not have to. The moonlight filtered through the tall windows, casting long, jagged shadows across the floor. He did not stop until I was pressed back against a shelf of leather bound books, the hard spines digging into my shoulder blades. "Killian," I whispered, the name catching in my throat.