Bonds at War: The Untouched is Mine novel Chapter 436

**TITLE: Attachment 436**

**Chapter 436: Princess-style**

**MINA**

Was I… dead?

For a fleeting moment, that singular question echoed through the hollow chamber of my mind, reverberating in the silence that surrounded me.

Everything felt muted, as if the world had wrapped itself in layers of cotton. Even the pain that should have been gnawing at my bones like a wild beast was merely a distant whisper. It was as though I had detached from my own body, floating in a void that felt both familiar and foreign.

Images flickered in my memory—thirst so intense that I thought my tongue would crack. I recalled the cold, unforgiving floor of that hidden basement, where I drifted between consciousness and oblivion, unable to fully wake. I remembered the taste of stale water from the old flask, a desperate sip that I knew I should have conserved for a more critical moment. But what did preservation matter in that forsaken place? No one was going to stumble upon that house. Rowena was far too clever, Calista too self-absorbed, and Corvin too cowardly to venture into the depths of that darkness.

No one would even think to check for me.

They would weave a tale—a dramatic, tragic fabrication about how I had run away, gotten lost, and likely met a grisly end at the claws of a bear. Perhaps they would shed tears at my funeral, weaving my absence into the fabric of their lies.

After pouring over Garrick’s letters, the pieces of the puzzle finally fell into place. His kindness contrasted sharply with Rowena’s bitterness, her piercing gaze cutting through me as if she were looking past me, seeing only my mother, hating me for a story I had never even been told.

They wanted me dead. They always had.

They had merely kept me alive long enough to exploit my usefulness.

So why was I waking up now?

Why was I no longer trapped in that basement?

As I struggled to open my eyes, I drew in a shaky breath, the blurry ceiling above me slowly coming into focus. It wasn’t the damp stone of the basement I had come to know so well.

Instead, it was… high, beautifully crafted, and remarkably clean.

A frown creased my brow as I attempted to push myself upright, only to be gently guided back down by a firm hand on my shoulder.

My eyes widened in surprise.

Elias loomed over me, his expression a tumultuous storm of emotions, yet the concern in his eyes was unmistakable.

Without meaning to, I mirrored his frown.

My cloak was absent, replaced by warm garments that felt foreign against my skin.

Yet, strangely, I didn’t feel the discomfort I would have expected.

“Elias?” I ventured, my voice barely above a whisper.

He exhaled, a mix of relief and irritation flooding his features. “Just lie down,” he instructed, his tone brooking no argument.

“What are you doing here? What am I doing here? What day is it?” My words tumbled out in a rush, too fast for my own comfort. Everything around me felt disjointed, like pieces of a broken puzzle.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, a gesture that spoke of exasperation. “Goodness. You ask an awful lot of questions for someone who’s been beaten and bruised.”

I shot him a weak glare. If I had the strength, I would have made it a more formidable one.

“You didn’t come to our meeting place,” he continued, his voice softening.

I clicked my tongue in frustration. “As you pointed out… I’m beaten and bruised.”

His jaw tightened, the tension palpable. “Who did this to you?” he asked, even though the answer was already etched in both our minds.

Turning my face away, I sensed his understanding. He clicked his tongue again, frustration pouring from him.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath. “Why would you let this happen to you?”

“Rowena has a power,” I murmured, my voice heavy with resignation. “Calista and Corvin wouldn’t lift a finger to help me. Not everyone possesses your strength, Alpha,” I replied, my tone flat.

For a brief moment, his expression softened, but the underlying fury was still present, simmering just beneath the surface.

“Now,” I pressed, “you still haven’t answered my question. What am I doing here?”

He sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair—a gesture I had only ever witnessed when he was profoundly troubled.

“I just felt it,” he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper.

I frowned, confusion knitting my brow. “You felt it?” I repeated, searching for clarity.

“I can’t explain it,” he replied hastily. “I just knew you were in danger.”

Then, as if to shift the conversation, he cleared his throat.

“The doctor has already examined you and treated your wounds. Your left wrist is broken, but thankfully, the other injuries are superficial.”

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