Chapter Eighteen; Envy and I'm screwed
Ash POV
A fucking blood bond.
I'm screwed. No, screwed is an understatement. I am cosmically fucked.
The half-drained blood bag in my hand sloshes with cold, clotted remnants. Disgusting. I fling it into the bin like it personally insulted me.
It tastes like rot. Like copper and shame.
I haven't shown up to any of my classes. Not Combat Arts. Not Vampire Studies. Nothing. I've been locked in my room, curtains drawn tight, buried under a heap of ancient textbooks, bloodthirsty urges, and the suffocating weight of bad decisions.
I've gone through all five stages of grief in the span of 36 hours—twice. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and now this shaky approximation of acceptance.
I spent hours scouring the internet for a method to break a blood bond. Magical forums. Forbidden archives. Even the shady deepnet spaces the elders pretend don't exist.
Turns out? If you drink blood directly from someone alive—not drained, not unconscious, alive and willing—your soul says, "Oh yes, we know them now. We need them."
It's weak. Minor. But it's there.
A thread wound tight around my ribs.
I feel it tugging every damn time I try to forget her. Every time I try to sleep.
I didn't mean to do it. I wasn't thinking.
I'm not even a full blood. I'm not supposed to have this level of connection. My instincts aren't even as sharp as most vampires'. I should've been able to stop myself.
But her blood—it called to me.
Warm. Sweet. Laced with something ancient and wild. Like magic soaked in sunlight.
I was weak. And now I'm cursed.
So the plan is simple.
Stay the fuck away from her. Don't drink from her again. Let the bond fade. If I can starve it, ignore it, smother it—maybe it'll die.
Right?
Right.
Except I want to go to her so badly I can barely stay still. My hands tremble. My fangs ache.
I pace the room like a caged beast. The shadows do nothing to help. They stretch long across the walls, whispering every time I think her name.
I snap.
I storm across the room and throw open the balcony door. Cold, damp island air hits me in the face like a slap. Good. Maybe it'll help.
The view is bleak and gray. Cracked stone pathways. Gnarled trees. Mist curling over the skeletal fence.
I step out onto the balcony and lean forward on the rail, letting the chill bite into my skin.
A statue stands in the courtyard below. One of those creepy old angel things left behind from the school's religious era. Its eyes are blindfolded, hands folded over a sword. I swear it mocks me every time I look at it.
I glare at it.
Then I look past it.
And freeze.
Her.
Pink.
Laughing.
Arabella.
She walks on the far side of the school grounds, the path leading toward the woods.
She's flanked by two companions. A wolf—massive, quiet, brooding—and the fucking fae. Elion.
Of course. One more has decided to leech themselves to her.
I squint, and despite the distance and the third-floor height, my eyes zero in. Clear as day.
She tosses her curls over her shoulder, smiling at something one of them says. The wolf glances toward her like she hung the moon. The fae? He walks too close. His arm brushes hers casually, like it belongs there.
As if sensing my attention, both turn toward the building.
The wolf stares at me briefly, then looks away. Dismissive.
But Elion?
Oh, Elion sees me.
He locks eyes with me, smirking.
And then—he raises a middle finger.
Right at me.
That smug, glitter-drenched bastard.
I stiffen. My knuckles go white on the balcony rail.
They continue walking into the woods.
Elion tosses another bird over his shoulder just before they vanish into the trees.
I swear under my breath.
I hate that bastard.
I hate how close he is to her.
I hate how she laughs around him.
I hate how envious I am.
I hate this bond.
I'm so, so fucked.
***
Zaire POV
Professor wants me to give this assignment to Arabella. A simple delivery. Should be easy.
Except—I don't even have her number.
I spot her in the distance, just beyond the archway leading toward the east courtyard. Her pink coat is unmistakable. She's standing under the ivy-covered arch, sunlight catching the shimmer of her hair.
And she's not alone.
I take a few steps forward. Hesitate.
I stop.
They're talking. Laughing.
I turn around.
I'll just give her the assignment in class tomorrow. It's not urgent anyway.