Bound to His Redemption
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Bound to His Redemption
Mists of Eria, Book 3
Lisa Kumar
Cover art: Hot Damn Designs
Copyright © 2016 Lisa Kumar
Electronic Edition
This is a work of fiction, so any resemblance to persons, locales, or events is purely coincidental. The characters, locales, and events are products of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to the retailer of your choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Table of Contents
Copyright Page
Bound to His Redemption
Other Books by Lisa Kumar
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Epilogue
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Discover other titles by Lisa Kumar at Lisa’s website and Goodreads. | Join Lisa’s Newsletter and Reading Group. | Connect with Lisa Online: | Twitter | Facebook
Bound by the Mist | Mists of Eria Book One
Excerpt
Bound to the Elvin King | Mists of Eria Book 2
Excerpt
The Fae Lord’s Mistress | The New Earth Chronicles Book One
Excerpt
The Fae Lord’s Companion | The New Earth Chronicles Book 2
Excerpt
Bound to His Redemption
Liar, murderer, traitor ... these are all names Eamon has been called, and he wears them with pride. Depending on which side one falls, those titles are only too true. But it’s all part of his orchestrated manipulations. Up until the day he was banished from the fae land of Eria, he had schemed for millennia to protect his people, even resorting to murder. As punishment, the Erian king exiled him on Earth to live amongst the lowliest creatures of all—humans. Yet one frustrating and captivating woman shakes his ingrained beliefs to the core.
Newly minted physical therapist Caralyn Alberts has been drawing images of a handsome, otherworldly stranger for as long as she can remember. She’s chalked it up as a fluke occurrence of life. But when she finds the arrogant Eamon sprawled out on the ice at a local park, her life becomes just as slippery and dangerous as the hauntingly familiar elf. Enemies, friends, and unwilling partners inundate them from all sides.
When Eamon’s treacherous past makes a reappearance, they’ll have to trust each other in order to keep their hearts—and their very lives—intact.
Other Books by Lisa Kumar
Mists of Eria Series:
Bound to His Fate
Bound by the Mist
Bound to the Elvin King
The New Earth Chronicles:
The Fae Lord’s Mistress
The Fae Lord’s Companion (coming soon)
Love in Time Series (Time-travel Regency):
An Earl in Time
Saving Lord Avingdale
The Faerin:
Crashing into Love (previously part of the anthology Crashing into You)
Claiming Riley (The Faerin)
Other Titles:
Fey Marked
Santa for Christmas
The Fae Lord’s Lady
Other Titles Arriving Soon:
Hearts of Tar
Claiming Lord Thuran
Bound to His Redemption
Copyright © 2019 Lisa Kumar
All rights reserved.
Discover other titles by Lisa Kumar at Lisa’s website and Goodreads.
Join Lisa’s Newsletter and Reading Group.
Connect with Lisa Online:
Twitter
Facebook
Dedication
Thanks to my family for always supporting my writing endeavors, especially my mom, who is always eager to read my newest chapters.
Brenda, thank you for your wonderful friendship, not to mention your equally wonderful critiquing of my stories. No matter what life brings (and it brings a lot sometimes), we’re always in each other’s corner.
Jessica, you’re my number one fan and a great online friend who never lets me feel down about writing. I love our chats and how you motivate me to keep on writing.
Donna, your friendship and support mean so much to me. I think we’ll never have a problem talking about books and writing — and whatever else takes our fancy.
Sarah, our walks are invaluable and rejuvenate me. I especially love our talks of increasing productivity when we find ourselves procrastinating, which seems to be all the time!
Chapter 1
Eamon blinked repeatedly to block the glare of the Earth’s sun. He lay flat on his back, where Aistiane had dumped him on the cold ground like so much garbage. Unpleasant fumes assailed his nose. Humanity was smellier than ever. Some things never changed, not that he expected any progress from weak mortals.
Shivering, he peeled his aching body up from the frozen ground. By the mist, why was human Earth so damn cold? He sneered. Oh, yes, because they had no magic. The imbecilic savages.
His eyes focused and brought in the view. Trees and more trees surrounded him. A light dusting of snow covered the bare branches and shrubs. He must be in some kind of garden. How like the tree-loving manifestation of the veil to drop him in such a place. Though he was an elf and liked trees well enough, he didn’t worship the ground they were rooted in like so many of his kin did.
His kin. Bah, they were all traitors to the cause. Why was he the only one who could see that keeping humans out of Eria was paramount? Humans loved to destroy everything they touched by maiming, killing, and obliterating. He’d learned that lesson all too well many millennia ago.
He let a wolfish smile come to his face. If any human were stupid enough to approach him with anything but respect, he’d take pleasure in gutting them.
No, no killing. Aistiane had threatened him with a slow, painful death by Talion — the king and all-around human-loving bastard — if he hurt a fly without her leave. Only to protect himself or another could he take the life a human. Though he’d kill to protect himself, it was doubtful he’d do so for any human. He growled at the very thought. He’d rather die than help a human that way.
Making sure no one was around, he rubbed his hands over his arms in an effort to warm them. Pain speared through his right palm, but he ignored it. After all, it was part of his penance. He snorted derisively. Like he needed that. However, Aistiane insisted if he ever wanted to see Eria again, he had to earn his redemption. Whatever that meant.
He dug around in the little pack he’d been given and withdrew a pair of old leather gloves. Their slightly tattered appearance made him wrinkle his nose.
These castoffs, though quite unappealing, might save him from frostbitten fingers. After he pulled them on, he frowned. The right one rubbed the healing scar on his palm, but there wasn’t much he could do about that. He’d been given no bandages before being banished. Only by Aistiane’s commands had Talion allowed him to dress somewhat warmly in a long-sleeved tunic and a thin cloak. They did nothing to keep out the bitter wind.
Slinging the pack over one shoulder, he walked across a hard, smooth surface that appeared to lead out of the garden. No sense in staying in the area. Food would be hard to come by unless he managed to capture something. With his small dagger, it was possible but not all that likely. The little bit of food he had would run out soon. Aistiane had said he couldn’t use charms to steal or cheat people out of their resources, which included food. His lips curled into a snarl. She truly had him hemmed in on all fronts.
There were remnants of his people here — holdouts who’d refused to leave Earth. He knew better than to seek them out, though. They’d want nothing to do with a reputed traitor. Aistiane’s magic had branded him one, and though humans wouldn’t be able to sense it, elves — or fae, as the holdouts called themselves here — would. The stinging pain of the branding still lingered over the cold lump that was his heart. But he’d learned to ignore the discomfort, just as he had the other myriad wounds he’d received throughout his long life.
Fortunately, humans were stupid, so surely he’d be able to physically steal what he needed. Aistiane had placed no ban on that.
CARALYN ALBERTS FROWNED at the sketch before her and gulped down the sour feeling rising in her throat. Something about the drawing wasn’t right. But what? Sure, she didn’t know the man — no, make that the pointy-eared god — that came bleeding through her pencils and pens. Then again, she rarely recognized her subjects when she let her mind and hand wander. Most of the time, she could get them down in a way that didn’t drive her bonkers, even if they sported pointy ears just like the elusive male did. He, by far, though, featured the most often in her fanciful drawings.
The chiming sound of her cellphone knifed into her consciousness, making her jump. With a sigh, she set her pad and pencil down and then fumbled for her cell. Hopefully, it wasn’t her mom. Though Caralyn loved her dearly, she didn’t feel like hearing her mom’s not-so-subtle hints about settling down.
Checking the screen, she saw Lana’s number and nearly put the phone back down. Lana was probably calling to invite her to something she’d never attend. Her friend was probably already at a bar or some other party locale. It was a Friday night, after all. Caralyn hesitated. What if her friend needed help or something?
Her finger hovered over the talk button before she tapped it. After lifting the cell up to her ear, she said, “Hi, Lana.”
“Hey, girl, what are you up to? Care to join us at the Purple Pear?”
Ugh, by the sound coming through the phone, Lana was already there and had put away a few drinks. Though Caralyn loved hanging out with her friends, she wasn’t into the party scene and hated nothing more than to walk into bars and other such places by herself.
“Thanks for the invite, but I don’t think so. I’m stuck on a sketch, and I really want to finish it.”
“Figured that. Still, if you change your mind and want to brave the cold, drop on by. It’s Friday, after all, and you’re not under your parents’ religious roof anymore.”
“I’ll think about it.” No, I won’t. And thanks for the reminder. I’ve only been out of their house since I was eighteen. “Have a good time and tell everyone hi.”
“Will do.”
After ending the call, Caralyn laid the cell on the table before her. Next to her, Archie, her Labrador retriever, lifted his head and gazed at her. His soulful eyes begged her to give him a scratch behind the ears. She smiled at him and rubbed his sweet spot. “Silly boy.”
With one last pat, she sighed. Time to get to work. After settling herself farther back against the sofa arm, she rebalanced the sketchpad on her knees. Her long-suffering back and legs protested the movement, but she plodded on. She’d stretch her sore muscles later.
After blending in a few more strokes of the colored pencil, she held the pad away from her. Her nose twitched, and she pinched her nostrils together. No, still not right. A growl of frustration ripped from her throat.
No matter how she worked with this piece, the colors didn’t turn out right. They didn’t smell right. Heaven knew with her synesthesia — a neurological condition that gave her senses a boost and allowed her to see, smell, and taste what many others couldn’t — she had to get the colors right because otherwise they wouldn’t have the right flavor. As crazy as that sounded, when she allowed her senses free rein, her sketches normally were all the better for it.
For some reason during artistic moments, her synesthesia was at its strongest. It was about the only time she couldn’t tune out the colors, scents, and tastes a select number of people and objects aroused in her both during real life and in her drawings. Thanks to her unpredictable synesthesia, she preferred to work on her drawings in privacy. But this time, no amount of privacy could help her get down the mysterious black-haired figure correctly. Sometimes, given the nature of the scenes he was in, she much preferred leaving a drawing undone. Not this time, though.
A few more swipes of color did nothing. With a sound of disgust, she threw the drawing pad across the room, where it landed on the floor past the coffee table. She should’ve known the sketching session wouldn’t go well. That particular male always challenged her. It was as if the person’s essence didn’t want to be pinned down. What a crazy idea because the contrary creature couldn’t exist in any world she knew of. Since she knew of only one world to begin with — the world she lived in — the thought was doubly preposterous. It’d been that way ever since she’d started to draw him as a teen.
Against her will, her gaze swung to the abandoned pad. The man’s otherworldly gray gaze, with its blue cat’s-eye-shaped pupils, seemed to stare at her ... mock her. Everything about him appeared elegant, yet condescending. Even his cloak was arrogant. She snorted but quickly sobered when she considered his oh-so-sinful face and physique.
Though he was tall and lean and his cloak hid more than it revealed, he seemed to have muscles in all the right places. The billowing navy blue material covered a tunic of the same color, along with gray leggings. Given the richness of his dress, he appeared as if he were some type of medieval lord.
Silver thread adorned the neck of his tunic, highlighting the strong column of his neck. His firm jaw gave way to sculpted cheeks and a chiseled mouth. And his hair? She’d never liked long hair on men, but he made a believer out of her. Her fingers flexed with the urge to run themselves through the black waterfall that she could picture all too easily in her mind.
She shivered and tore her attention away from the drawing. Everything within her told her this male was bad news — dangerous, mad, and bad. The yellow-edged, purple-black aura emanating from him proved that and made her wary. Though no one color ever meant the same thing from one person to the next, his felt and tasted inherently dark, like smoky molasses on the tongue. Still, some indefinable quality about him called to her. Now if she could only figure out why he sometimes had a yellow tinge to his aura and why he sometimes did not. The yellow seemed like a foreign yet natural part of him — separate yet integrated along the edges with the other colors.
Hoisting herself off the sofa, she grunted and stretched before going over to pick up the sketchpad. She placed the pad image down on the coffee table, not wanting those eyes on her any longer.
With one last uneasy glance at the table and its burden, she prayed nothing like him existed in any world.
THE SNOW AND BITING wind burned against Eamon’s face. His surroundings were quickly turning into an ice land. Shivering, he pulled his cloak tighter around him and took in the dismal white world.
He was back at the park where Aistiane had dropped him. Though it was sorr
y comfort, it was the place that reminded him most of his world. Murren, the town outside the park, was a place he avoided as much as possible. Humans, the petty creatures, gave him strange looks. If he loitered too long in shops where it was warm, he was asked to leave because he was “scaring” the paying humans.
Shaking his head, he scoffed at the absurdity of humans paying with paper and those hard, little cards they loved to pull out of various pouches. Back home, all of life’s necessities were purchased through barter or using gold, jewels, and other precious metals.
At least this time around, humanity was cleaner than it used to be. He abhorred physical filth, so it was a small grace that he wasn’t continually surrounded by it. Now if only he could take a full bath. Washing his hands and face in public bathrooms — and his privates when no one was around — wasn’t his idea of good hygiene.
Even shaving turned out to be a chore, though he thankfully didn’t have to use the razor he’d purloined from a store very often. All hair on elves grew much less quickly than it did on humans. Thank Eria, that hadn’t changed with his arrival on this plane, because he didn’t enjoy the nicks the human-made razor left on his skin. Unfortunately, he was due for another shave, as he couldn’t abide any stubble.
His stomach rumbled, reminding him of another thing he’d been missing. He hadn’t had a real meal since he’d left Eria three weeks ago. Though he was almost desperate enough to check his pack again, he knew there was nothing in there. He’d long ago finished what little food he’d been provided. After that, he’d been reduced to scrounging for food like some vagrant. This mostly amounted to stealing a bit here and there, but after he’d seen people throw perfectly good food away, a formerly disgusting idea had implanted itself into his head. He’d vomited the first time he’d reached into a garbage receptacle, but by now he’d largely learned to quell that feeling.
Hunching deeper into his cloak, he glared at the snow. He’d been stuck in the mortal realm for too long, and who knew how much longer the torment would last? Each miserable second stretched into eternity. Being cold, hungry, and dirty was hateful. A fantasy of wrapping his hands around Talion’s throat made him feel better for about three seconds. Then a frigid wind grabbed any satisfaction he felt and carried it far off, leaving behind frozen limbs and bones that felt like they’d snap from the cold. Air slipped under his cloak and cut through the old, thin gloves.