Chapter 7
SEVEN
NORTH
“The Council would like some reassurances that you’ll have the girl Bonded and under control soon, Draven.”
I've always prided myself on my ability to keep my cool. Even as a child, my control over my Gift and my bond was unprecedented, mostly thanks to my mother’s controlling ways, but I often took it for granted.
My father spent years drowning in his frustrations at my supposed nonchalance, knowing that his own power was a fraction of what he could feel growing within me and fearing the Draven name being tarnished if my Gift was someday unwittingly unleashed at full power.
His control slip certainly sobered my confidence some, but it took finding Nox to truly learn that lesson.
Discovering the abuse my brother had suffered at the hands of his disgusting mother had triggered a response from me that couldn’t be stopped, even if I wanted to, and was a brutal lesson of the real dangers of my Gift uncontrolled.
Though I feel no regret for Emmaline’s violent death, it still drummed home to me the true gravity of being both a Top Tier Gifted and a Death Dealer.
As the circle of black smoke circles my wrist under the table, I must accept that I’ve become my father’s greatest fear.
Council meetings rarely have a full table in attendance, but those desperately seeking more power and prestige frequent them in hopes of advancement, and today is no different.
Of the nine Gifted waiting on my retort, only two are loyal enough to be called allies, and only Alexander Benson has the backbone to speak up for me and the sense to avoid making a fool of himself while doing so.
Hannity is a simpering idiot at the best of times.
Sharpe’s chosen line of attack isn’t a surprise.
He spearheaded a campaign to lower the minimum Bonding age a few years ago, claiming his sons had found their Central Bond and shouldn’t be ‘forced to wait out the inevitable’.
The Central Bond was fourteen, they were both seventeen, and sitting in on that discussion had provided me with a list of council members who I would never side with on any issue going forward.
Bonding was the very last thing on my mind when we found our fourteen-year-old Bond.
Fuck, if I didn’t have the council climbing up my ass about ‘volatile Bond Groups’ and ‘the risks of an Unbonded Top Tier Gifted’, it still wouldn’t be the issue I’d be prioritizing right now.
No matter how desperately my own bond is clawing at me to go to her, her safety is more important, and the Resistance is taking Gifted from the streets again.
Inara smirks briefly before lifting a coffee cup to her lips, a pathetic attempt at discretion, but her Central Bonded, Naya, looks far less amused.
“Under control? An interesting take from a Central Bonded yourself, wouldn't you say? I’d have great concerns for the safety of our community if Draven held such views himself, especially with his position overseeing the Tactical Units.”
Alexander sends me a droll look when I turn in his direction, but even my strongest allies are intolerable to the writhing fury of my bond right now. It appears it views everyone as a threat.
Everyone but Nox.
Oleander Fallows has only been at Draven for a week and already I've had to talk my bond down from dozens of violent episodes.
Begrudgingly, I have to admit that more than half of those responses were well-warranted, but that only made convincing the psychotic force within me all the more difficult.
Students whispering about her, professors emailing me with their concerns of having her in class without knowing what her Gift is, members of the community stopping me in the streets to enquire about the striking girl who I’ve brought here to live among them, all of them deserve death for daring to look at what is mine… or so my bond believes.
With a warning look at Sharpe, I force my tone to stay level, even if neutral is impossible for me right now.
“I certainly don’t advocate for the deprivation of any Central Bond’s liberties, nor will I stoop to such behaviors within my own Bond Group.
While we’re on the topic, thanks to your sudden fixation, let me make it clear to you all that I won’t be discussing my Central Bond with the council any further, unless there’s irrefutable evidence that she poses a danger to the Gifted community.
It is my right to refuse access to my Central Bond…
and to deal with any threats made toward her. ”
Sharpe’s cheek twitches but I refuse to glance away from him for even a second, holding his gaze until he finally mutters a curse and drops his head.
Surveying the rest of the table, I leave no question. “I won’t hesitate to act on any threats accordingly, with every power under my control and with the full backing of the law.”
I can practically hear the blood draining from their heads, the faces around the table turning white in a split-second.
If my bond were capable of being reasonable, the fear thickening the air directed entirely at me should be enough to satisfy it.
Even Sharpe has a tremble run down his spine, his chin dropping the moment I glance in his direction, but my bond only craves the chaos and bloodshed of unleashing my shadows on them all.
I’ve spent decades cultivating an icy relationship with the voice within me.
I heard it—of course I did—but I ignored it as much as you can ignore a voice within your own mind that doesn’t belong to you.
After decades of this, it barely bothered to speak to me at all, only coming out in times of extreme danger, and I almost forgot there was something not right that shares my mind and body.
Now, it won’t shut up.
Demands to go to her, to be with her, to give her everything within our power—which, as a Draven, is practically the entire world.
Even now as we sit here and watch the most revered families of power within the Gifted Community tremble in our presence, the litany of demands run at the back of my mind until I’m driven to madness. Eventually, I snap back at it.
She left us, abandoned us, and by her own admission, she wants nothing to do with her Bond Group. Going to her will do nothing to change the hell we’re stuck in.
When I intend on turning back to Alexander and directing the meeting back to topics far from my bond, I find I have lost control of the action.
A shot of panic runs through my bloodstream, but my head only turns toward Sharpe, and nothing more, a ripple of frustration working its way down my spine.
My bond refuses to look away from the threat to Oleander, even without her in the room.
When I relent, it releases my body back into my control with a whispered warning to me.
My Bond would never run from me. Do not doubt that for a second.
I want to carve my own chest open and pry this fucking monstrous bond out of me. Keeping my face carefully blank is a reflexive action, but I want to mutter out a curse when I shift in my seat, fidgeting to stop myself from cussing my own bond out.
Well, she did, and you’re a fool if you don’t believe it.
Hannity proves to have some use and starts yammering on about funding for an up-coming event he's holding under the pretense of reassuring the Gifted community that we’re doing everything we can to stop the abductions.
The man loves nothing more than throwing a party he can drink at and be praised for his charitable work while sending the bill to someone else to tidy up.
My bond whispers to me again, fury ignited within every word. The only fool here is you—clinging to your human weaknesses while threats circle my Bond.
It's been saying that a lot lately but my gut still churns every time I hear it.
It cares far too much about the distinction between Gifted and non-Gifted—more alarmingly, it calls everyone other than us and my Bond ‘human’ as though such a thing is disgusting and forgetting the fact we are also in fact human; being Gifted doesn't change that fact.
The idea of my bond holding the same elitist ideals of the Resistance is so abhorrent to me that my skin crawls with shame.
The door to the conference room snaps open, my assistant rushing through with a vacuous look on her face, but when I open my mouth to chastise her for interrupting the meeting, she fumbles out her reason and my heart stops dead in my chest.
“There’s been an incident. Your Bond is in the medical bay—and so is half her class.”
Draven’s medical center is a fifteen minute drive from the council offices, thanks to the parking nightmare I can never really solve, or a ten minute walk across campus if you maintain a brisk pace.
I make it in six.
Gryphon’s TacTeam are out in full-force, covering every inch of the building, and despite our usually casual interactions, no one cracks a joke at my harried state.
No, they all keep their eyes on the perimeter with little more than a respectful head jerk in my direction, which isn’t as reassuring as it should be.
Only the feel of her, alive and safe within the building, keeps my head together as I weave through the bustling hallways. A few staff attempt to speak to me but I ignore them, brushing everyone and everything off until I have some fucking answers.
Gabe is leaning against the wall outside of the private medical suite, his eyes on his toes and misery rolling from him like waves.
There’s something sickeningly gut-wrenching about seeing the youngest member of my Bond Group look as though he’s living through his worst nightmare right now, and my blood freezes at the sight of him.