Bound By Gravity (Bound and Freed #1)

Prologue

SENAN

THEN

“Believe me when I say, you’re going to fucking love this den. Last time I was there, there was this one dancer with breasts the size of melons—and just as juicy.” The way Philip rolls his tongue along his lips makes me want to vomit. He holds his arms out from his chest, curving them as if they represent said “melons.” He looks like such a twat.

I don’t understand why my brother Aeron insists on hanging around with this prick. Philip’s father may be one of the king’s newest advisors, but he is as sleazy as they come, always leering at women when they pass and making crude remarks.

I love breasts as much as the next man. Large ones, small ones, doesn’t really matter. But juicy breasts? Sounds like that poor woman needs to see a physician.

Usually, I’m up for a bit of banter and mischief with my brother in Kumulus City, but the moment Philip met us on the balcony outside the castle solar, my enthusiasm evaporated. The only upside is that the market is crowded today, and I can pretend I don’t know him.

Instead of stopping there, dearest Philip keeps going with his less-than-appealing descriptions of the fallen women who work in the flesh dens down by the river. I’m sorry, but “bare as a mole” and “a mouth that can the suck scales off a fish” does not entice me.

Why must he speak so loud? We don’t want to hear the crass shite that comes out of his vile mouth, so I highly doubt all these people purchasing baked goods and trinkets this afternoon will appreciate it either.

I take a few steps to my right, ignoring the plea in Aeron’s gaze as Philip keeps yammering.

Why our father chose Philip’s father as part of his cabinet still baffles me. Our mother despised his family—said they weren’t fit for wings, let alone a seat next to the king. If she were still alive, she would have put a stop to the madness.

Unfortunately, our father has been left to his own devices for far too long.

The market is a symphony of color. Emerald-green and ochre silks draped over wooden racks. Vivid violet corsets stretched across dress forms in shop windows. Pastel windchimes made from shells found in the Folly Sea. Small dolls with tiny wings sewn with rainbow yarn.

The most vibrant colors of them all belong to the Scathian fae themselves. Between their hair and their feathers, it’s like a kaleidoscope exploded over the market.

Most of the men have their wings out, trying to impress the women no doubt. I’ve always wanted colorful wings. Maybe red or orange, like the fire I wield. Or a nice, calm green, like the trees in Coill. Instead, I have black feathers. The hue of death and shadows, same as every other male in my family. Apparently, only the most powerful fae have black wings. Not sure who came up with that rubbish. Probably one of my ancestors. And they say we’re “blessed by the stars.” Not because of our wings but our silver eyes. I must admit, I don’t mind them nearly as much as my wings.

I suppose I can’t be too upset with my lot in this life. After all, we have a distant cousin whose feathers are the color of vomit. Not that anyone outside the family knows because he dyes them every other week.

Aeron drifts closer to me, while dearest Philip is busy making eyes at a group of women gathered around a man selling handbags.

“Does he ever shut up?” I mutter under my breath.

The golden rings along Aeron’s pointed ears glimmer when he shakes his head. “Pretty sure he talks in his sleep. The man is such a thorn in my side.”

“Maybe it’s time to remove the thorn before the wound starts to fester.”

For some reason, my comment leaves him frowning. Before I can ask him to explain his reaction, a fleeting wisp of blue catches the edge of my vision. Nothing out of the ordinary; there is color everywhere, after all. But for some reason, I find my head turning, my eyes searching for the source.

That is when I hear it.

A laugh.

Amidst all this noise, the warm, throaty sound shouldn’t stand out, yet it does. Like the unique shade of blue, it draws me in like a fire on a frigid winter’s night.

“Sen?” Aeron’s soft call fades as I scan for the source of that laugh.

My sudden stop disrupts the flow of people surrounding me. Men curse as they shove past, yet I remain frozen, because there, next to the cart filled with pink and green apples, stands a young woman, laughing with one of the vendors.

It feels as if the marble slabs beneath my black boots have turned to quicksand, keeping me from going anywhere but here.

The woman is beautiful, with flowing locks of cerulean waves, high cheekbones, and golden-brown skin, delicate features, and a long, slender neck. But I’ve seen plenty of beautiful women paraded through the castle by noblemen holding out hope of enticing a Vale prince and derailing betrothals that have long since been chiseled in stone.

Despite her beauty, there is something else that calls to me. Maybe it’s the way her head falls back when she laughs with such abandon. Or it could be the sound itself, like a symphony of pure, unadulterated joy. What must that feel like? To be so carefree. So happy .

A man and woman strolling arm in arm cut across my path. Something that never would have happened if my brother and I hadn’t slipped past our guards. It’s amazing how far a decent glamour and a few gold coins can get you. The castle guards may be fearsome, but most are as corrupt as Philip’s father.

“What the hell are you doing? We’re going to be late,” Philip grumbles, tightening the leather queue around his mousy brown hair. Suddenly, the idea of going to the den sounds as appealing as a kick to the bollocks.

I take a halting step away when a hand wraps like a vine around my forearm. Aeron looks past me, toward the beguiling woman who has captured me in her thrall without even knowing I exist.

“What’s in your head, Senan?” he whispers.

“I’ve had enough of that wanker. I’m going back to the castle.” Eventually .

The flat expression oozing disapproval doesn’t suit Aeron at all, making him look like our tyrannical father. His quicksilver gaze darts to the woman, then swings back to me, and I know what he is about to say before he even opens his mouth. “Look. Don’t touch.”

It’s the same warning my mother once gave me when we went into a shop filled with ornate glass baubles blown by the city’s most reputable artisans. Do you know what happened then?

I shattered ten.

“Says the man about to go to the city’s most expensive flesh den.” He is so infuriating when he pretends to care about the rules, like being eleven months older makes him my guardian. Prince Hypocrite should reserve his judgement for someone who deserves it. We both know he’ll be cloistered inside one of the den’s private rooms, buried between the legs of some whore, within the hour.

Look. Don’t touch.

Because touching creates connections.

And connections outside of our castle’s lofty towers are forbidden, all because we’re betrothed to princesses from far-off kingdoms. Hell, even my baby brother Kyffin has a fiancée, and he is only five.

The occasional fuck is just fine, but attachments? Not a hope in hell. The prestigious Vale family does not mix with common folk, lest we taint our pure Scathian blood.

Aeron’s hand falls away, and he heaves a resigned sigh. “Just don’t get caught, all right? I don’t want to deal with Father. Or Boris.”

Why did he have to go and bring our eldest brother into this? The first in line to the throne of Kumulus, Boris makes Philip look like a saint.

If our father found out, we’d be sternly reprimanded. If Boris found out, he’d make our lives hell.

Luckily, I know how to get around the city without being spotted. It’s not like anyone will recognize me without my wings. Thanks to my glamour, my hair isn’t black either, but a nice, neutral brown. Like a potato. I am an invisible potato. “I won’t,” I promise.

With that, Aeron and Philip continue their trek toward the edge of the inter-connected balconies where they hold the Scathian market. From there, they’ll fly down to the river and land where the wingless Tuath live beneath the clouds.

I, on the other hand, am going to speak to the woman with the enchanting laugh, who has moved on from the apple cart to a different merchant selling citrus fruit. When the man behind the table catches her browsing the stack of yellow lemons, his eyes make an unabashed sweep from her hair to her chest.

She is too busy turning a lemon over in her hand to notice the way the pervert’s gaze fixates on the front of her jerkin. A pair of brown-speckled wings appear at his back as he runs a thick hand through his wheat-blond hair.

I’ve never been a violent man, but for some reason that I can only put down to foolishly skipping breakfast, I want to gouge out his eyes.

“What is a pretty thing like you doing all alone on market day?” he asks, all smarmy smiles and lingering eyes.

When the woman smiles up at him, something pinches in my chest. “Who says I’m alone?” Her voice, as sultry as her laugh, makes my knees weak.

Does she have a companion? I scan the marketplace, but no one seems to be paying her any attention. If I’d arrived with her, I’d be hanging on every word that fell from her perfect lips.

She holds up the lemon. “Do you have any lemons that are riper? These seem a little firm.”

Ripe. Firm . Fucking brilliant. Now I’m the pervert gaping at her chest.

Head up, creep . I lift my eyes to her face but get distracted by those parted lips, the same shade as a blush rose’s petals. I wonder if they’re as soft.

The man winks and tells her he’d be happy to have a look “around the back.” What a git. The woman’s smile never wavers, like she doesn’t realize the double entendre in his statement. He turns and struts into the store, his wings stretching and flapping before tucking into his spine.

Pathetic.

Good thing I’m here to swoop in and steal her away from the arrogant fool. When I’m finished, citrus fruit will be the last thing on her mind.

I slip into the empty space next to her, lean my hip against the front of the table, and throw on my most dazzling smile. The problem is, she doesn’t look up from the yellow fruit still clutched in her hand. I should probably say something to announce my presence. Something spectacular that she will recall for the rest of her days.

If only I had my younger brother Rhainn’s penchant for poetry.

Her head lifts, but when her gaze finally meets mine, the words on the tip of my tongue vanish, and I find myself drowning in the golden pools of her eyes. In this moment, I finally understand why all the dragons in those storybooks hoard gold. Why it is the most valuable, most precious of all metals.

Her soft smile makes my own lips tilt up at the corners, as if she has complete control over me. When she lets out a soft gasp, I feel the air in my lungs. When I see the flutter of her pulse at her throat, I feel her heart thumping in my chest.

I clear my throat, breaking the spell this enchantress has cast, regaining some of my senses. But what happens next makes me wish I could give her back control, because I open my mouth and say, “Lemons for what?”

Those are my first words to this stunning creature. In a hundred years, when the two of us are happily married, she will be telling our twenty grandchildren this very story. Never mind the fact that I’m destined to marry another. In this very moment, that feels like such an insignificant detail we can surely find a way around.

I swear I can hear their laughter when they learn that I followed her, eavesdropped on her conversation with a merchant, and asked about fucking lemons.

The delicate skin at the corners of her eyes crinkles when she shoots me a dazzling smile. “For cheesecake, of course. It’s my favorite dessert.”

What a coincidence. Cheesecake is now my favorite dessert too.

The merchant returns, a whole basket full of lemons clasped in his beefy arms, as if he is trying to impress her with feats of strength. When he sees me, his eyes narrow into slits. I return his scowl with every spark of fire that flows through my veins. If he wants to fight, I will be more than happy to relieve him of his head.

The woman doesn’t appear to notice our silent exchange of hatred, reaching right into the basket and selecting a new lemon.

“Oh, yes.”

Her exclamation forces the man to look away from me, which obviously makes me the victor in our staring contest.

She nods, her hair falling forward, blanketing the front of her jerkin in sky blue. “This one is much better. May I have ten, please?” She replaces the lemon in the basket and withdraws a small purse from her belt.

Now is my chance to redeem myself after the awkward lemons comment. My clammy hands fumble in my haste to unhook my own purse and withdraw a gold coin. “Allow me.”

The man’s smile tenses as he reluctantly accepts the coin. Must be shite knowing he has to remain here with his fruit while I stroll off with this woman on my arm.

Her eyes widen as she looks upon me with sincere appreciation. The merchant fills a small canvas bag with ten lemons and hands it across the stall. When he goes to retrieve his own purse, presumably to give me change, I tell him to keep the coins, a consolation prize of sorts. I hook my hand through the bag and settle it on my shoulder.

What type of gentleman would I be if I didn’t offer to carry the woman’s bag—and anything else she wants. Her simple trip to the market is about to become an all-expenses-paid shopping spree, courtesy of Senan Vale.

I could imagine her wearing those golden earrings over there. Or that necklace with sapphires glinting in the jewelry shop’s window. And I can definitely picture her in that blue gown across the way, the one that crisscrosses in the front and shimmers like Ever Falls.

I follow the woman away from the stall, waiting for a shower of gratitude, which will provide me with the perfect opportunity to tell her that she can repay the debt by accompanying me to lunch. The winery up in Corva has excellent calamari. Does she like calamari? Not everyone enjoys food from the sea. There’s a fine restaurant in Noctua with a broader menu that sits atop a mountain overlooking a lake. Maybe that would be more impressive.

My plans die when she whirls, golden eyes fuming. “Are you mad?” she hisses, looking angrier than that ratty, one-eyed cat whose tail I accidentally stepped on when Aeron and I last snuck out of the castle. “Did you honestly think the amount of gold in your purse would impress me?”

I had, in fact, thought that. Not that I plan to say so aloud with the way she is glowering.

“I do not want, nor do I need your money. I can buy my own lemons.” She stuffs a hand inside the purse still clutched in her fist and shoves five coppers into my chest. I only take them because I don’t want the things to fall onto the ground and get kicked away by all the people milling around.

She steals the bag of lemons, which I suppose isn’t stealing at all since I purchased them for her. All I can do is stare down at the five coins and wonder what the hell is happening.

She sweeps a few cerulean strands back from her molten eyes. “Before you give out to me for not paying you back fully, it’s not my fault you chose to waste so much on fruit.”

We have clearly gotten off on the wrong foot. If I don’t put this to rights now, I may not get another chance. And for some reason, the idea of never seeing this woman again makes my chest ache. “Do you know who I am?” I ask.

When her gaze rakes from my potato-brown hair to my boots, I have the overwhelming urge to drop my glamour and release my wings. Then she will surely be impressed.

Her pointed chin lifts so she can look down her upturned nose at me. “You are Prince Senan Vale, third son of King Taranis of Kumulus.”

I guess I’m not an invisible potato after all. Why isn’t she swooning? Why does she seem so irritated by my very presence when I am so enthralled by hers?

She tugs free some hair captured beneath the bag’s strap and adjusts where it rests on her shoulder. “Unfortunately, Prince Senan, I did not come to the market in search of a mid-day tryst; I came to buy lemons. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have somewhere else to be.”

So, my reputation precedes me. She must know someone with whom I’ve had a mid-day tryst. Unfortunately, it is quite an extensive list because the whole “look, don’t touch” rule has only made touching that much more fun.

Although I have been thoroughly dismissed, I find myself asking, “Where is that?”

Sunlight gleams off her straight, white teeth when she flashes a saucy smile. “Anywhere you’re not.”

She turns away from me, and a pair of cerulean wings appear through the slits in her jerkin, the feathers at the top darker than the ones at the bottom.

My heart sinks.

Actually, it doesn’t sink. It leaps right out of my chest and flops onto the ground.

Instead of flying away, she twists back around, and my hopeful heart gives a happy thump where it lays between us.

“By the way.” Her gaze drops to the ground, her grin widening as if she can see my heart splayed out like a sacrifice just for her. “You have Pegasus shite on your boot.”

I do not have?—

Shit.

Well, isn’t this fucking brilliant? There is, indeed, Pegasus shite on the toe of my left boot. Why do they insist on letting those foul beasts walk where we do?

By the time I glance back up, the woman has taken to the sky, her wings carrying her toward the western horizon.

As I watch her fly farther and farther away, a strange emptiness spreads through my chest. My sacrificial heart is no longer on the ground; it has been stolen by a woman with cerulean hair, golden eyes, and a bag of lemons.

Doesn’t she know that a man cannot survive without his heart?

I suppose I have no choice but to track her down and ask for it back.