Page 33 of Golden Bond


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“You don’t have to explain everything tonight,” I said, trying to keep my voice level.

He hesitated. “No, but it’s better if you know.”

Auren drank from his glass and turned toward the window. His profile was silver-edged in the low light, the same moonlight that had touched his skin hours ago when we were wrapped together and trembling.

Now, he stood like someone who’d locked that version of himself away.

We drank the rest of the water in silence. Not tense, not cold—just quiet in the way of two people suddenly unsure what to do with shared space once the ceremonial veil had been lifted.

Auren lingered by the window, his gaze fixedoutward toward something I couldn’t see. The sea, perhaps. Or the moon. Or nothing at all.

I watched him.

The memory of his hands on me was still fresh—so fresh it made my breath catch when I looked too long. The way he had moved. The way he had held me, not as a duty but as a choice. I hadn’t expected it to feel like that.

And yet here he was now, the same man, standing at a distance I didn’t know how to cross.

I turned away, set my cup down beside his, and wandered deeper into the room. My fingers skimmed the silk draped at the edge of the bed. Beneath it, a mattress so thick it looked like it might swallow me whole. Beyond it, wide doors led to a bathing chamber, and beyond that, the dressing alcove—where my new garments had been folded and arranged, one beside the other in hues of deep ochre and pale bronze.

It was too much. Too sudden. All of it.

But more than that… I could feel it.

The bond.

It wasn’t a sound. Not a scent. Not even a pressure on the skin. But something was threading through me—subtle and persistent, like the low hum of a plucked string still vibrating. Like something alive that lived just beneath the ribs.

It was connection.

Tether.

Pull.

Caedin had said I would feel it. That it would belike a touch I couldn’t name. That it would confuse me. It did. It confused everything.

Because it was there—undeniable—and yet, Auren’s silence felt like a closed door.

I turned toward him again.

He was undressing.

Not deliberately. Not sensually. Just unfastening hisseretat the shoulder, the motion clean and practiced, revealing the smooth slope of his collarbone and the long line of his chest as the garment slipped away. The rest came next—his belt, the golden wrap around his hips, each layer peeled away until he stood in nothing but the soft fabric underlayer tied low at his waist.

He moved toward the bed, casual in his grace, but I felt it like a blow.

My mouth went dry.

I didn’t understand how want could feel like that—how it could strike all at once, fierce and dizzying, just from the sight of someone slipping free of silk. My skin felt hot. My breath shallow. I told myself it was the bond. The magic. A trick of the ritual still lingering in my blood.

But I didn’t believe it.

It wasn’t just the bond. It was him.

He sat on the edge of the bed, back straight, then leaned over slightly to unlace the guards at his ankles. His silver hair spilled forward, and I stared like a fool, every nerve in my body pulled taut.

He didn’t look up. Didn’t seem to notice the way my fingers curled against the velvet armrest.

And maybe that was what made it worse.