Bound to the Enemy: The Mafia's Obsession

Two days passed by since Cassandra Feng awoke inside the frail body of Cassandra Bolton. She had sworn-sworn with blood and fury-to lock away her past, to bury the betrayal, the heartbreak, the unforgettable cruelty of her Master who had shattered her dantian and her life with one merciless strike. She told herself it was nothing but a nightmare, a phantom stitched from pain, one she would never drag into this new existence. A past she would forget and erase as she started her new life given by fate. But forgetting was a lie she told herself. Every moment, every breath reminded her of what she had lost. The way her weak fists trembled when she clenched them, the helplessness of her fragile body, the fever simmering through her veins-it all pulled her mind back to what she once was: a blade sharpened by blood and discipline, not this pitiful porcelain doll in a viper's nest. Living in the Bolton House was no different from being caged in a pit of serpents and wild beasts. One wrong move, one careless glance, and fangs would sink into her throat. And still... she could not forget. The man whom she gave her heart and soul to. The man who put an end to her life with his own hands. It had been two days since she was locked inside her room without food, or water. Her body burned with fever, her lips cracked, and her stomach twisted with hunger. She could only drink the water from the sink in the bathroom to quench her parched and burning throat. Not even a servant came to check. From Cassandra Bolton's inherited memories, this neglect was nothing new-her mother, Karmilla Visent Bolton, loathed her very existence, reserving all her love for her precious son. The fever grew worse. Her body shook with chills though fire coursed beneath her skin. She tried to drag herself to the window, but her limbs were lead, her vision spinning. Never, not even when hunted by assassins or abandoned in blood-soaked battlefields, had she been reduced to this wretched state. Not after her Master rescued her and brought her back to the Sect with him. And then, the thought slipped from her hazy mind-Master would never have let her... Her heart clenched. Her lips bled as she bit down hard. No. She would not think of him. She would not think of the betrayal. That life was dead. They don't owe each other anything anymore. She was Cassandra Bolton now. And yet, no matter how fiercely she tried to lock it away, her memories clawed at her like chains dragging her deeper into despair. Her fevered thoughts were broken by the sudden slam of her door. The sound echoed like thunder in her skull. Footsteps. Slow, deliberate, heavy with intent, closing in on her bed. Her instincts screamed danger. Her body tried to rise, but it betrayed her-too weak, too frail, too broken to defend itself. She could only weakly slip her hands underneath her pillow and clutch the dagger hidden underneath to protect herself. The room seemed to grow darker, colder, shadows stretching unnaturally across the walls. Cassandra's blurry gaze fixed on the advancing figure, a silhouette swallowing the dim light. The footsteps halted by her bedside. Cassandra's fever-clouded eyes struggled to focus, and when her vision steadied, she froze. It was him. Theodore Bolton. Eldest son of House Bolton. The undisputed Crown Prince of the long standing Bolton dynasty. The Blood Prince of the underworld. Her villainous big brother. From Cassandra Bolton's inherited memories, he was a man of shadows-cruel, ruthless, untouchable. He had never spared his only sister more than a glance in their seventeen years of blood-bound relation. A stranger in the skin of family. But now, as his gaze fell upon her burning, shivering figure, something shifted in the air. Theodore Bolton's eyes, icy blue, cold and sharp as honed steel, lingered too long on her face-on the beads of sweat rolling down her temples, on the lips bitten bloody in defiance. His jaw tightened as though he were holding back words-or perhaps an emotion-that had no place here. It was not pity. It was not care. It was something far more complex, far more dangerous. A flicker of disdain crossed his expression, gone so quickly it might have been imagined. And yet beneath it lay a strange undercurrent... almost like recognition. But recognition of what? His fingers twitched at his side, as if suppressing the urge to reach out-to strangle her or to steady her, even he seemed uncertain. Among the countless siblings born from his father's four wives, the frail figure lying fever-stricken before him was the only one who shared his 'blood' in full-their bond tied by the 'same mother'. And yet, even that truth had never stirred much warmth in him. But, that also turned to be one of his mother's secret. And why she despise her only daughter. Oh, Mother. I really am your son, Theodore Bolton mused as he looked down upon his so called little sister.