I wake to fire.
Not flames—no smoke, no crackling inferno—but a fever that burns through my veins like molten glass. My skin is slick with sweat, my muscles taut and trembling. Every breath is a struggle, as if my lungs are fighting against invisible hands squeezing my ribs. I gasp, arching off the mattress, but there’s no relief. Only pain. Only heat.
Where am I?
The room is obsidian, like the halls of the Fae High Court, but warmer. Richer. Black stone walls curve into a vaulted ceiling, embedded with veins of crimson crystal that pulse with a slow, rhythmic light—like a heartbeat. The air is thick with the scent of sandalwood and something darker, deeper: blood, old and potent. A fire crackles in a hearth carved from black basalt, casting long shadows across the floor. Silken sheets cling to my body, damp with sweat, and the pillow beneath my head still carries the faint imprint of someone else’s presence.
And then I remember.
The Eclipse Ceremony.
The dagger.
The bond.
Kaelen.
My hand flies to my shoulder—the spot where his fangs pierced my skin. The wound is sealed, but the mark remains: a raised, intricate sigil, still warm to the touch. It pulses faintly, in time with the crystals in the ceiling. With my pulse. With his.
I sit up too fast, dizziness slamming into me. The fever spikes, a wave of nausea rolling through my gut. I press a hand to my stomach, breathing through my teeth, but the pain doesn’t ease. If anything, it worsens—like my body is being torn apart from the inside.
And then I feel it.
A pull.
Not physical. Not in my limbs.
In my blood.
It’s like a thread has been woven through my veins, stretching across the room, down the hall, into the heart of this fortress—and it’s taut. Straining. If I move too far, I know, it will snap. And something tells me that if it does, I won’t survive.
The bond.
It’s not just magic.
It’s a leash.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, gritting my teeth against the dizziness. My bare feet touch cold stone, and I wince. The fever makes everything too sharp, too loud. The crackle of the fire. The whisper of fabric as I stand. The soft thud of my pulse in my ears.
I need to get out.
Now.
I stagger toward the door—a massive slab of black iron etched with blood runes. My fingers brush the handle, and the moment I do, the fever explodes.
I scream.
It’s not just pain—it’s agony. My knees buckle, and I collapse against the door, my vision swimming. My skin burns. My bones ache. My blood feels like it’s boiling, like it’s trying to escape my body. I claw at the handle, desperate, but the runes flare crimson, repelling me.
No.
No, no, no.
I crawl back toward the bed, dragging myself across the floor, every inch a torment. The moment I cross some invisible threshold, the pain lessens—just enough to breathe. Just enough to think.
And then I understand.
The bond isn’t just binding us.
It’s tethering me to him.
If I leave this room, if I go too far, it will kill me.
I collapse onto the bed, trembling, my breath coming in ragged gasps. My fingers curl into the sheets, knuckles white. Hatred surges through me—hot, violent, all-consuming.
Kaelen.
He did this on purpose.
He didn’t just mark me.
He trapped me.
The door opens.
I don’t look up. I don’t need to. I feel him before I see him—the shift in the air, the sudden drop in temperature, the way my blood responds, surging toward him like a starving thing.
He steps inside, silent as shadow.
Still dressed in the remnants of his ceremonial coat, though the sleeves are rolled up, revealing forearms corded with muscle and marked with old scars. His hair is slightly disheveled, as if he’s been running his hands through it. His eyes—those burning crimson eyes—lock onto mine.
And for a moment, neither of us speaks.
Then he closes the door behind him with a soft click.
“You’re awake,” he says. His voice is low, controlled. But there’s something beneath it—something I can’t name. Concern? Amusement? Possession?
I don’t answer. I just stare at him, my body still trembling from the fever, my mind racing. How far is the nearest exit? How long would it take me to reach it before the bond kills me? Could I fight him? Could I kill him before he stops me?
He watches me, as if reading my thoughts.
“Don’t,” he says simply. “Not yet.”
I bare my teeth. “You don’t get to tell me what to do.”
“I do now.” He takes a step forward, and the air between us thickens. My skin prickles. My breath hitches. The mark on my shoulder pulses, warm and insistent. “The bond is unstable. If you try to run, you’ll die. If you try to fight me, you’ll die. If you even think about killing me right now, the magic will punish you.”
“Then kill me,” I spit. “Better than living as your prisoner.”
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. “I’m not going to kill you.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re mine.”
The words are so simple. So final. And they send a jolt through me—not of fear, not of anger, but of something else. Something dangerous.
Desire.
I hate it.
I hate him.
But I can’t deny the way my body reacts to him—the way my pulse quickens, the way my skin burns where his gaze lingers, the way my breath catches when he takes another step forward.
He stops at the foot of the bed. “The fever will pass. But only if you stay close to me.”
“So I’m supposed to just… what? Lie here and wait for you to decide my fate?”
“Yes.”
I laugh—harsh, broken. “You’re insane.”
“No.” He tilts his head, studying me. “I’m pragmatic. You tried to kill me. In front of the entire Supernatural Council. You think they’ll let you walk away from that?”
“I don’t care what they think.”
“You should.” He moves around the bed, slow, deliberate. “They’ll execute you for treason. Publicly. Painfully. And I won’t stop them.”
My blood runs cold. “Then why save me?”
“I didn’t.” He stops beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his body. “The bond did. It recognized you. Claimed you. And now, you’re under my protection.”
“Protection?” I laugh again. “You call this protection? Locking me in your room? Tying me to you like some cursed pet?”
“It’s better than death.”
“Not to me.”
He exhales, long and slow. Then, without warning, he reaches for me.
I flinch back—but he’s too fast. His hand closes around my wrist, pulling me toward him. The fever spikes, a sharp burst of pain, but then—
Then it lessens.
Not gone. Not healed.
But calmer.
And then he’s touching me—his other hand pressing flat against my bare back, just below my shoulder blades. His palm is warm, calloused, and the moment it makes contact, the fever recedes further, like a tide pulling back from the shore.
I gasp.
Not from pain.
From relief.
And from something else.
His touch sends a shock through me—deep, visceral. My skin burns where he touches me. My breath comes faster. My body arches into his hand, despite myself.
“See?” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble. “The bond responds to proximity. To touch. The closer we are, the stronger it stabilizes.”
I try to pull away, but he holds me firm. “Don’t.”
“Why?”
“Because you’ll make it worse.”
I glare up at him. “You’re enjoying this.”
“No.” His gaze drops to my lips. “I’m not.”
And then, for the first time, I see it—the crack in his control. The flicker of something raw in his eyes. Hunger. Not for blood.
For me.
My breath catches.
He sees it too. And for a moment, I think he might kiss me.
But then he pulls back, releasing me.
The fever returns—just a whisper, but enough to make me gasp. I clutch the sheets, my body trembling.
He watches me, his expression unreadable. “You have two choices,” he says. “You can stay here, under my protection, as my consort. Or you can leave, face the Council, and be executed.”
“Consort?” I laugh, bitter. “You think I’d play the devoted little mate to the man who murdered my mother?”
“I think,” he says slowly, “that you’re smarter than that. And I think you know the truth.”
“What truth?”
“That I didn’t cast the curse.”
I freeze.
My breath stops.
And for the first time since I woke, the fever doesn’t matter.
Because he just said the one thing I wasn’t expecting.
He knows.
He knows about the curse.
He knows about my mother.
And he’s telling me he’s not the one who killed her.
My mind races. Is he lying? Is this a trick? A way to break me, to make me doubt my mission?
But his eyes—those burning crimson eyes—don’t waver. He’s not mocking me. He’s not toying with me.
He’s challenging me.
“Prove it,” I whisper.
He smiles—just a curve of his lips, cold and dangerous. “Stay. Serve me. Let the bond grow. And I’ll show you everything.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then you die.”
Simple. Final.
And I know he means it.
I stare at him, my body still trembling, my mind a storm of fury and fear and something else—something I refuse to name.
Because the truth is, I don’t have a choice.
Not really.
If I leave, I die.
If I stay, I become his.
And if I want answers—if I want to know the truth about my mother, about the curse, about him—then I have to play his game.
So I lift my chin, my voice steady despite the storm inside me.
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll stay.”
His eyes flare—just for a second. Triumph. Possession. Hunger.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Because I wasn’t going to let you go anyway.”
And then he turns, walking toward the door.
“Rest,” he says over his shoulder. “You’ll need your strength.”
“For what?”
He pauses, glancing back at me. “For tonight. The Council wants to see us. Together.”
My blood runs cold.
“Why?”
“Because,” he says, “they need to confirm the bond. And because,” he adds, his voice dropping to a whisper, “they’ll want proof that you’re truly mine.”
And with that, he’s gone.
The door closes.
And I’m alone.
But not really.
Because the mark on my shoulder still pulses.
Because my blood still sings for his.
And because, no matter how much I hate him—no matter how much I want to kill him—I know one terrible, undeniable truth.
I’m already his.
And the worst part?
Part of me doesn’t want to be free.