Page 89 of The Bound Blood
We walk for a few minutes in silence before Dorian glances at me sidelong, mischief already brewing.
“So,” he says casually, “shall we begin?”
I snort at his repeated words. “I thought we already did.”
“Oh no.” His smile curves, slowly. “We haven’t even started the interesting part yet.”
Before I can ask what that means, he flicks his fingers and a ribbon of blue-white fae magic unfurls between us—thin as silk, weightless as air. It drifts toward me with purpose.
I freeze. “What are you doing?”
“Testing a theory.” He gestures lightly. “Touch it.”
“That seems like a terrible idea.”
“Most worthwhile things are.”
I shoot him a look, but he only waits, patient and annoyingly confident. After a beat, I reach out. The moment my fingertip brushes the glowing strand, my Veil mark flares under my sleeve. The magic reacts—not against me, but around me, curling like it’s greeting something familiar.
Dorian’s eyes widen a fraction. “Well. That is… unexpected.”
My pulse jumps. “Unexpected how?”
He circles me slowly, watching the strand of magic coil and twist. “Fae magic usually resists accepting anything tied to the Veil. But my magic…” His gaze lifts to mine. “It welcomed you.”
I swallow. “Is that bad?”
“I didn’t say that.” He steps closer, close enough that I feel the faint hum of his power brushing my skin. “It means you are not merely connected to the Veil. You are possibly part fae, too.”
“That sounds worse,” I mutter.
He laughs quietly. “Not necessarily. But it does make you very…” His gaze dips to my wrist, then back to my eyes. “…interesting.”
Raiden had warned me Dorian flirts with everyone, but I can’t tell if this is flirting or analysis or both.
“So the test was… what? See if I feel pain?” I ask.
“Only a little.”
I choke on a breath. “That’s not funny.”
“It is very funny,” he insists, smiling like he’s enjoying every second of my irritation. “Besides, I wouldn’t let you actually feel it. I’d shield you before that happened.”
“Oh. That’s comforting.”
“Isn’t it?”
We walk on, his magic hovering near us like a curious creature. It flickers every time my mark pulses. Dorian watcheseach interaction too closely, studying me with interest far too sharp to be casual.
“You’re doing that staring thing again,” I say.
“I am observing,” he corrects.
“That’s just a fancy word for staring.”
“Then yes,” he says simply. “I’m staring.”
My breath snags—I can’t even pretend it doesn’t. He’s impossible to read, equally charming and dangerous, and the closer he walks, the more the air between us tightens.
