Soul Bound, page 43
Soul Bound
HANNAH KINGSLEY
One More Chapter
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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2026
Copyright © Hannah Kingsley 2026
Cover design by Lucy Bennett © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2026
Cover illustration © Kelley McMorris/Shannon Associates
Hannah Kingsley asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Source ISBN: 9780008707545
Ebook Edition © January 2026 ISBN: 9780008707538
Version: 2025-10-24
Contents
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
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Acknowledgments
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To Alex
My Soulmate. My Chosen.
Chapter 1
Fate save me from this idiocy!
Though that would require Fate to have a sense of mercy, and I think he’s proven he doesn’t. At least not where I’m concerned.
I’m Renza Di Maineri. Fate does not care for me.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, summoning my dregs of willpower as the newly minted Electi Ulrico hogs the central white stage. Not even the gushing rainbow light pouring from the domed stained-glass ceiling could soften this prattle. I swear even the alabaster stone columns cringe as they listen, their tall trunks sluiced with shadows and dancing diamond flecks cast down from the artisanal heavens.
Ulrico speaks with no authority, not a shred of strength nor even a whiff of charisma. He has none of the gravitas of my former colleagues, who were murdered in the Grand Temple Explosion. It’s more like pleading than persuasion, the words somehow falling clammy and clingy on the ear. His head flops up and down, nodding as though that’ll make him more convincing. His beady brown eyes stare unflinchingly at the Electi he’s currently facing, before he wildly spins to unnerve the next.
Fate’s Fury, how did this man win an election?
After the Holy States failed their brutal and violent attempt to take over Halice, the city fought back in the Great Rebellion. The people rose up against the Holy States’ agents and militia, kicking them out of our home. And I was the only Electi left standing. To keep our democracy running we’ve held a few very speedy elections – five of them so far. Somehow Ulrico won his.
I mean, of course I know how he did it. I’m still in awe it worked. His sibling, Electi Yaleni, died in the Grand Temple Explosion – where the majority of Electi had been slaughtered along with most of their families and many others. Ulrico had leveraged the eyeballs out of the tragedy, lashing himself to the memory of Yaleni’s good works for the rural districts, to scrabble together enough votes for a seat. Yaleni was an orator. Yaleni was raised for this office by a community that knew they would flourish and continue the hardworking legacy of their people.
Ulrico … made me understand why choosing Yaleni hadn’t been worth a debate.
But that was another time. A time before the Holy States conspired to murder my colleagues and weaken my city in an effort to destroy our independence. An independence we will never surrender.
Ulrico is now one of the six Electi that govern the free city of Halice. Six when it’s supposed to be seven, because no one wanted to sit in the seat that used to belong to Bellandi the Traitor. After everything he did, from the calculated, heartless slaughter of the previous Electi, to positioning the Church Militia behind our walls and stealing from the city to pay a force to invade his own people – no one wanted the association. No one wanted to link themselves to such a great and foul traitor or his wretched legacy. The problem, however, is that leaves our sacred High Chamber off balance.
“Esteemed Members, I relinquish the floor,” Ulrico finishes, eyes whirling to me, seeking approval. I force a tight smile, linking my fingers over my lap.
I’ve become used to that quick check my way to make sure the new Electi are doing it right. I try not to make it a big deal, but every time it rams the arrow deeper into my gut and makes my heart throb and my stomach churn: that I’m the longest serving Electi at only twenty-one years old, and the awful reason why. Thankfully, most of the newly elected have started to let it go.
I shift in my seat, the exquisite dark wood creaking softly as I move. Before I can stand, Electi Leone Strossi rises. My heart sinks as he strides forwards, vivid orange light sliding off his slick brown hair. His expensive brown shoes squeak as he walks, the sound like nails down a blackboard.
Leone Strossi, the replacement for Member Mortiselli. An absurdly wealthy young man with all the prejudice that comes from a long lineage of believing you’re better than everyone else. He’d been my main opponent when I’d run for election almost three years ago, and he didn’t take losing lightly. He rubs his stubbled chin, flashing a thoughtful smile around the room.
This man knows what he’s doing. This isn’t some new thought or unprepared speech as he tries to imply through body language. It’s calculated.
I’m not going to like this.
I sit up straighter and narrow my eyes. I reach towards my side table, currently sprinkled with soft pink light from the stained window behind. I pull the papers on it closer, ready to take notes.
“Esteemed Members,” he begins, voice crisp and warm, “it is no secret that we face a crisis in this city. Our biggest and oldest trade partner, the Holy States, will have nothing to do with us, and the other Independent States are afraid to provoke or anger the Holy States and the Holy Mother by increasing trade with us more than already exists – and even that is trailing away. As such, businesses are failing. Jobs are crumbling. Key resources are difficult to find. This crisis is of our own making—”
Trade. The bedrock of Halice. It had fallen catastrophically. Most of the trade that’d flowed through our city was en route between the Holy States or one of the other Independent States, nations like ours that had earned their freedom from the Holy States centuries ago. Our position along the Argenti Strait makes Halice the perfect stopping place.
“We did not invite violence here; it was forced upon us,” comes Savino’s voice. The quiet, stoic young man narrows his steely grey eyes. That unblinking gaze could unnerve mountains. Electi Savino is Captain Collier’s son. Recommended for the seat by Idris, we’d both campaigned for him, and he’d won his election with ease, since both he and his late father are war heroes.
Savino firmly aligns himself with Idris on most matters, but I’d expected that when Idris made the recommendation. Still, throwing my influence behind Savino hadn’t come without a favour of my own in return.
I can’t help but let my eyes drift over to the empty seat strewn in a curtain of butter yellow. The absence of his tingling, blistering, caustic presence leaves a hollowness in my chest where a simultaneously comforting and pestilent knot of churning frustration should sit. I try not to think about it, about him. The infuriating man whose absence dominates my mind as much as his presence does. My Soulhate. I fail miserably.
He should’ve been back by now.
; “Yes, of course. Thank you for the correction. Please forgive my careless words.” Leone instantly agrees with Savino, playacting genuine sorrow. “What I meant to say is, that it is our responsibility to get our city’s businesses and economy back on track.”
“You have a suggestion?” chimes in Maggia with clipped words. Maggia had been my recommendation, and we were often on the same page with issues. The no-nonsense woman is in her mid-fifties, making her the oldest currently sitting Electi. She’s sharp as a razor and beloved by the people of Halice. She used to be a teacher before changing path and managing several chamber-funded outreach programmes that help clothe, feed and bring medicine to the very poorest of our people.
Maggia is a walking saint, not that she’d be impressed with the comparison.
She sits in my father’s old chair, elbow wedged on the arm rest, her chin resting on a closed fist. The blue light of the stained-glass window weaves like magic with the silver streaks in her brunette hair. She stares unflinchingly at Leone without enthusiasm, a man that symbolises everything she sees as wrong with this city.
“I suggest we lower some business taxes, to encourage business owners, to promote the idea of a strong, prosperous business scene here in Halice and get our economy growing again,” Leone says.
“You want to give rich people more money, when the number of the poor and destitute grow in number almost daily?” Maggia can’t keep the disgust out of her voice as she shakes her head. I shift in my seat, the wood creaking under my weight as I scribble down this suggestion. I keep track of all the ideas Leone has put forward.
“More money in the pockets of the people is more money they can spend at businesses. The money keeps flowing,” says Leone.
“What exactly does this chamber do with taxes except spend them? On things the people in this city desperately need? With key Halician businesses?” Maggia counters with a thin veil of calm that almost sounds like a teacher coaxing a student. Leone bristles at her words.
“Should not the people be allowed to decide where and how they spend their money?”
“They do – that’s why they elect us.”
I stand up. Time to interrupt before Maggia and Leone descend into their usual bickering that gets us utterly nowhere. Leone looks perturbed by my movement but nods in acknowledgement.
“Esteemed Members, I relinquish the floor,” he says, striding back to his seat. He settles in the orange-clad chair, watching unhappily as I walk towards the central platform. Light ripples over my body as I take my place on the sacred, mosaic stage. I keep my stance relaxed, my shoulders wide and open, and a faint, welcoming smile on my face. I’m awash in every colour of creation as I speak, keeping my voice level and calm.
“Esteemed Members, I will not argue that Member Strossi makes a valid point,” I begin, gesturing warmly to Leone. “We need to do more for the economy and businesses of Halice. I am a woman of business and banking; I have seen firsthand how people are struggling. Yet I do not believe this particular action to be the best way forward.”
“So you won’t even discuss it?” challenges Leone.
“Of course we must discuss every idea that might help our people.” My answer holds a deliberate, barely audible undertone of weariness. “However, taxes are a matter of the budget, and the budget has already been agreed. If we were to open the floor to tax debates we would have to reopen the entire budget. The one we currently have has been very carefully reworked and already agreed by this chamber.”
Being the one who spent countless nights reworking it, I will not let that bag of worms be opened again. It’d been a nightmare getting it to pass the first time, and that was when it was just Idris and Savino I’d needed to convince – Savino being the first member to get elected after Idris, making us a semi-functioning High Chamber again.
“Yes, when half the seats in here were empty,” Leone counters unhappily. “This chamber is much changed since then. The voices of the people deserve to be heard.”
“This High Chamber constantly changes. We set a budget once a year for good reason – because otherwise it would never be finished or closed. That is the law.”
“Convenient for the woman whose bank holds the city accounts.” Leone scowls.
I take a deep breath, fixing him with a level gaze.
“The Bill of Halice’s Budget Reforms came into effect thirty-seven years after the founding of the city, with an amendment seven years later, for this exact reason. That’s more than one hundred years before the Di Maineri Bank was created,” I respond, quickly rounding the maths in my head. “While I hear your frustration, Member Strossi, the law is the law. It has not been adjusted or manipulated since—”
My words shudder and stop abruptly. I flinch. My breath is ripped from my lungs by hot, invisible fingers. Stinging goosebumps erupt along my spine, snapping my back poker straight. My pulse turns molten, my heart hammers, my stomach convulses. Invisible boiling needles stab relentlessly into my fingertips, digging under my nails like scalding splinters.
Reflexively, I force myself to take a long, slow breath in, swallowing in vain to fight the bile blistering the back of my throat. I reach for mind-stilling – using breathing and logic to allow my head to fight the unruly, unreasonable emotions threatening to take over my body. I fight at the gnawing whispers beginning to echo in the darkest corners of my mind. I drop my head, unable to fight the relieved smirk pulling at the corner of my mouth. Behind me, a dark, pulsing star slowly grows closer and closer before stopping only a few tantalising, bruising paces away.
I lift my head, certain the Fated urges are now under control, but I don’t see my colleagues. My only focus is the infuriating, tumultuous man hovering behind me like a dark hurricane. He’s finally home.
My Soulhate.
I don’t turn around.
“Are you going to take your seat, Member Patricelli?” I ask calmly, my words floating lightly around the hallowed hall.
He’s back. He’s here.
“I didn’t want to interrupt you, Member Di Maineri.” His deep rumbling voice, while abrasive, holds a note of amusement.
Steeling myself, I turn slowly. The blush-coloured silk of my dress slides soothingly over my tingling skin as I face the scorching dark fire of my Fated. Idris leans against the wooden barrier of the stage, arms folded, still in his travelling gear. His tousled blond hair gleams like the sun itself, his nose and brow tanned gold. His hazel eyes glint with light and the corner of his mouth lifts in a wry kind of smile.
My Fated has returned. My Soulhate. My predestined worst nemesis. The man Fate bound to me in an eternal, irrational bond of scorching loathing and violence.
The man who saved Halice with me. The one man I could trust when Bellandi and the Holy States were working to destroy us.
Our cursed bond has punished us both so fiercely, plaguing us with forces twisted and dangerous – brutal urges we constantly fight to keep in check. I’m grateful for mind-stilling, the breathing techniques that help my logical brain override the irrational, violent, Fate-driven part of my person. I reach for those techniques so often now, they’re almost reflexive. But they do little to quash the borderline pain his presence creates. And yet, there are times I am grateful for it – the agony of his closeness. Because when I’m struck by a myriad of familiarly heinous sensations, I know one unmistakeable, unchangeable fact.
