Page 60 of The Bound Blood
But my hand finds hers. Steady. Certain.
“This way,” I say.
I don’t let go.
We slip through the corridors, past hushed voices and lingering shadows, and out into the crisp early afternoon air. The path curves west, where the old tower rises like a forgotten piece of history stitched to the edge of the Academy. It isn’t forbidden. Just… overlooked. The kind of place you only find if you’re searching for something that doesn’t quite fit anywhere else.
I think that’s why I like it.
The tower holds stories—actual paper-and-ink stories, the kind that were passed down before spell-books and Veil craft. Fairytales. Morality fables. Strange, meandering things with unreliable narrators and lessons hidden in the margins. They’re not important enough to sit on the library’s gilded shelves or dangerous enough to be locked away in the restricted section.
But they’re real. They feel real. And I’ve always loved them.
I don’t say any of that aloud. Not yet.
Instead, I hold her hand tighter as we reach the door and slip inside. The air smells like old paper and cedar and the faintest trace of smoke, like someone lit a candle here once and the memory of it stuck.
My pulse is racing.
We climb the spiral stairs—stone worn smooth in the middle from centuries of steps. She’s quiet behind me, but I can feel her presence like a spark waiting to catch. Each breath I take feels heavier, not with fear, but with anticipation.
Because this is real.
Because it’sher.
At the top of the tower, we reach the little circular alcove. There’s a bench curved along the edge of the window with twoold pillows on the surface, and the sunlight spills across the floor like a blessing. Dust motes drift in the beam, floating and glinting as if the whole room is holding its breath.
“I used to come here when I needed to think,” I say, finally letting go of her hand. My fingers already miss her warmth. “No one ever comes here. Not even professors.”
Lindsay turns in a slow circle, taking in the domed ceiling, the stacks of untouched books, the quiet that hums like a heartbeat beneath the silence. Then she looks at me.
Andsmiles.
It’s soft and radiant, and it hits me like magic I don’t know how to cast.
“You brought me to your secret reading tower?” she asks, voice full of quiet teasing and something warmer beneath it.
I laugh, nerves breaking through. “It’s not as romantic as it sounds.”
“It kinda is,” she says, stepping closer. “Books. Sunlight. Cute boy who looks like he might combust from one more kiss…”
I go red. Again.
“I’m not combusting.”
“You are.”
Her hands slide up my chest, and my breath catches.
“You sure you’re okay with this?” she murmurs, gaze searching mine. “We don’t have to rush.”
“No,” I say quickly. “I mean—yes. I’m sure. I want this.You.”
Her smile tilts toward wicked. “Good.”
Then she pulls me to her.
And this time, when her mouth finds mine, there’s no hesitation. Just fire. Soft and slow at first, then deeper—deeper still, like we’re trying to imprint on each other with lips and hands and the way our bodies fit together in this sliver of time and space.
