Bound to you

Oh, this fucking weather... At this rhythm, I won’t even be able to light the candles, let alone start a fire.

Tiny particles of rain settled on my nose, peeking out from under my cloak, and I moaned.

I’m going to be cold.

Or not.

A pair of glowing amber eyes watched me from the crossroads ahead.

“I don’t need your protection! I’m not one of your Weavers, and I’m not yours to protect. I know what I’m doing!” I shouted from afar.

He growled. He must think I care—or that he can stop me from doing what I’m about to do.

Or at least, start doing.

“Go away, Rivan!”

He winked and turned around so quickly that I only caught the shadow of where he’d stood.

If I didn’t know better, I’d think I was imagining things. But no—it’s been like this for years.

And his scent—sweet lavender, clean clothes, and a faint touch of sea salt...

For someone who stumbles through the woods every day, he always smells so fresh. Too fresh.

Sometimes I wonder if he buys oils from the village apothecary or something.

But he’s always been like this, and I know a runaway kid couldn’t afford that kind of luxury.

When I reached the cabin, I shoved the door closed. Even the doorknob was slick with condensation.

The air inside was heavier still.

God, please let this work.

The old tin soldiers—my father’s, once offered to my mother when he thought his firstborn would be a boy—would now serve a higher purpose: to stop the King’s men from collecting yet another human sacrifice for the Weavers, under the false pretext of unpaid tithes.

It happened every new moon.

Last time, it was a boy—the son of the haberdasher.

I’ve known that family my whole life. My grandmother bought her threads there, then my mother, then me.

I even remember helping them once, weaving a little something to shift their fortune when I saw what the Fates had planned.

Maybe that was my mistake. Maybe I drew their attention.

I poked at the damp wood again, and finally—flames crawled up the logs.

At last, fire.

Now I could begin.

I’d need red thread to bind the soldiers... and cassia bark, to still their motion once the spell was done.

The plan was simple: tonight, they wouldn’t leave the castle walls.

Not to collect, not to kill.

If all went well, they’d be stuck there—confined, inoperable, perhaps struck by a sudden bout of collective food poisoning.

Maybe there’d be something in their wine tonight.

I rummaged through my satchel, back to the fire, when a humid, sweet scent—lavender and sea—clung to my spine.

A warm hand brushed my hair aside, exposing my neck.

Hot breath met my ear.

“You’re really not good at staying out of trouble, are you?”

Even without turning, I knew those lips were curved in that half–smirk that always scrambled my thoughts—

the upper ones and the lower.

I wanted to touch him, to grab him by the collar—

though I couldn’t always tell if I wanted to hit him or just have an excuse to feel his skin.

Not that I needed one.

He always let me.

“You’re not very good at following orders either,” I muttered.

His hands slid to my waist.

“Give me an order that doesn’t make me look like an idiot, and I’ll be one of your tin soldiers.

Tie me up and do whatever you want.”

He was insufferable.

“Rivan,” I breathed, as one of his fingers traced a slow circle around my navel before moving lower.

“Ysandra,” he teased back.

How could the air, moments ago damp and heavy, suddenly feel so warm and alive?

It was as if he brought oxygen into the room—as if every nerve in my body woke at his presence.

Sometimes, alone in bed at night, I wondered if he had any idea of the effect he had on me.

“The red thread,” he murmured, his nose brushing the edge of my ear as he pointed toward it.

I didn’t need to see him to know exactly what he meant.

That was another thing about us—with him, it wasn’t only threads I had insights about.

“Come on, little weaver…” he whispered. “Let’s play.”

He stretched his wrists toward me.

And the fire did not dare to crackle.