The fever starts at dawn.
Not with chills. Not with sweat. But with silence.
The bond—my second heartbeat, the fire beneath my ribs, the only thing that’s felt real in ten years—goes quiet. Not broken. Not severed. Just… muffled. Like someone wrapped it in wet cloth and shoved it into the dark.
I wake gasping, my chest tight, my skin too hot, my wolf snarling beneath my skin. The torchlight is too bright. The stone too cold. The air too thick. I press a hand to my sternum, where the sigil should be pulsing, where the bond should be humming, and feel—nothing.
Not pain.
Not rage.
Emptiness.
And that terrifies me more than any blade, any spell, any lie.
Because I know what it means.
The curse is winning.
—
I find her in the war room, standing over the maps, her gloves off, her sigil glowing faintly. The torchlight catches the edge of her profile, sharp and unyielding, her dark hair pulled back, her spine straight. She doesn’t turn as I enter, but I feel it—the bond flares, low and steady, a quiet storm beneath the surface. Not fear. Not anger. Anticipation.
“You knew he’d let us test the blood,” I say, stepping beside her.
She doesn’t look at me. “Of course I did. He wanted us to think we’d won. Wanted us to lower our guard. Wanted us to—” She pauses, her breath catching. “To believe we were safe.”
“And we’re not.”
“We never were.” She turns, her dark eyes blazing. “He’s not afraid of truth. He’s afraid of us. Of what we become when we stop fighting. When we stop hiding. When we stop lying.”
My chest tightens.
Because she’s right.
And that terrifies me more than any blade, any spell, any lie.
“Then we don’t stop,” I say, stepping closer. “We keep moving. We keep fighting. We keep—”
“Trusting?” She laughs, low and bitter. “You don’t get to say that. You don’t get to act like this changes everything.”
“It doesn’t change what I did,” I say, voice rough. “I gave the order to burn your coven. I let Malrik frame you. I made you a ghost. But it changes what I am. And what I’ll do to fix it.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just stares at me, her chest rising and falling too fast, her scent—fire and thyme, yes, but beneath it, something sweeter, something alive—wrapping around me like a vice.
And then—
She steps forward.
Not to strike.
Not to fight.
But to press her forehead to mine, her breath warm on my skin.
“Then prove it,” she whispers. “Not with words. Not with promises. With action. With fire.”
My breath hitches.
Because I’ve spent ten years ruling with iron, burying my grief, telling myself I didn’t need a mate. That I was stronger alone.
And now—
Now I know I was wrong.
“I will,” I say, voice low. “But not here. Not now. Not while he’s watching.”
She pulls back, eyes narrowing. “Then when?”
“When he thinks we’re broken,” I say, stepping closer. “When he thinks you’re still doubting. When he thinks I’m still blind. That’s when we strike. That’s when we burn him to ash.”
Her breath hitches.
“And until then?”
“Until then,” I say, lifting her wrist, the sigil pulsing beneath my fingers, “we make him believe it.”
She doesn’t pull away.
Just lets me hold her, the bond humming between us, warm and steady.
And for the first time, I let myself believe it.
That maybe—just maybe—she’s not the enemy.
Maybe she’s the only one who can save me.
—
The Keep feels different now.
Not just because of the bond.
Not just because of the cursed sigil.
But because of her.
She walks through the corridors like she belongs here. Like she’s not a witch who came to kill me. Like she’s not a woman who bled for me last night.
Like she’s mine.
And she is.
I watch from the balcony as she passes below, her boots striking stone, her magic flaring at her fingertips. Kael sees her too—stands straighter, watches her with something like respect.
“She’s different,” he says, stepping beside me.
“She’s not hiding anymore,” I say.
“And you?” He studies me. “Are you?”
I don’t answer.
Just watch as she disappears into the archives, her gloves off, her sigil glowing faintly.
And for the first time, I let myself believe it.
That maybe—just maybe—this isn’t just a bond.
Maybe it’s a weapon.
And maybe, just maybe, we’re strong enough to wield it.
After all.
Fire doesn’t just destroy.
It renews.
And I’m ready to burn.
With her.
For her.
And if that means destroying the man who framed us both—
Then so be it.
Because this time—
This time, I won’t lose her.
Not to vengeance.
Not to fate.
Not to the fire.
Not to anything.
She’s mine.
And I’ll burn the world down to keep her.
—
By midday, the emptiness turns to pain.
It starts in my skull—a dull throb behind my eyes, like someone’s driving a nail through my temple. Then my joints. My muscles. My spine. Every nerve screaming, every breath a knife in my ribs. I try to move, to pace, to command, but my limbs won’t obey. My vision blurs. My skin burns, then chills, then burns again.
“Lysander?”
I turn. Kael stands in the doorway, his gold eyes sharp, his jaw tight. “You look like hell.”
“I feel like it.” I press a hand to my temple. “The bond—it’s gone quiet. Not broken. Just… muffled.”
His expression darkens. “Bond sickness.”
“It can’t be.” I try to stand, but my knees buckle. “We’re not denying it. We’re not fighting. We’re—”
“Malrik’s still poisoning it,” Kael says, stepping forward. “The curse isn’t just about lies. It’s about fear. About doubt. About separation. And right now—” He gestures to me. “You’re radiating it.”
“I’m not afraid,” I growl.
“You’re terrified.” He grabs my arm, steadying me. “Not of him. Of her. Of what happens if you let yourself need her. If you let yourself love her. If you let yourself live again.”
My breath hitches.
Because he’s right.
And that terrifies me more than any blade, any spell, any lie.
“Then fix it,” I say, voice breaking.
“I can’t.” He lowers me into a chair. “Only she can.”
“She’s not ready.”
“Then you’ll die.”
“I don’t care.”
“She does.”
And that stops me.
Because he’s right.
She does.
—
She finds me at dusk, slumped in the war room chair, my coat on the floor, my shirt soaked with sweat. My vision blurs. My hands shake. My breath comes in ragged gasps. The bond is a ghost now—faint, distant, like a radio signal fading into static.
“Lysander.”
Her voice cuts through the haze like a blade.
I try to speak, but my tongue feels too thick. Too heavy.
She’s at my side in seconds, her hands on my face, her dark eyes blazing. “What’s wrong?”
“The bond,” I manage. “It’s—”
“Silent.” She presses a hand to my chest, where the sigil should be pulsing. “Malrik’s magic. It’s feeding on your fear. On your doubt. On your need to protect me.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.” She grips my shoulders. “You think if you push me away, if you pretend you don’t need me, you’ll keep me safe. But you’re killing yourself. And if you die—” Her voice cracks. “I’ll burn this place to the ground.”
My breath hitches.
Because I’ve spent ten years believing I was strong alone.
And now—
Now I know I was wrong.
“Then help me,” I whisper. “I can’t—”
“Shut up.” She slaps me. Not hard. But sharp. A crack that cuts through the fever, the pain, the fear. “You don’t get to give up. You don’t get to die. Not after everything we’ve fought for. Not after everything I’ve lost.”
Tears burn behind my eyes.
Because she’s right.
And that terrifies me more than any blade, any spell, any lie.
“I’m not letting you go,” she says, voice breaking. “Not to the curse. Not to Malrik. Not to your damn pride. You’re mine. And I’ll burn the world down to keep you.”
And then—
She kisses me.
Not soft. Not slow.
But hungry. Desperate. A claiming. Her tongue sweeps into my mouth, tasting, devouring, as if she’s been starving for this. My body arches, pressing against her, my core aching, my magic flaring. Her hands slide down, fingers hooking into the waistband of my pants—
And then—
A whisper.
Not from her.
Not from me.
From the bond.
A pulse of magic, sharp and sudden, rips through us both. We freeze, breaking the kiss, our breath coming fast, our eyes wide.
“The curse,” she says, voice rough. “It’s reacting.”
I look down.
The sigil on my chest is glowing brighter, pulsing in time with the bond. The runes on the war room’s edge—ancient wards etched into stone—ignite, tracing symbols of unity, of fire and fang, of blood and bone.
“It knows us,” I whisper.
“It knows the bond,” she says. “And it’s trying to heal it.”
“How?”
“By forcing us to face it.” She cups my face, her thumb brushing my lower lip. “By making us stop fighting. Stop hiding. Stop lying.”
My breath hitches.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” I say, voice rough. “You’re not alone anymore.”
Tears burn behind my eyes.
Because she’s right.
And that terrifies me more than any blade, any spell, any lie.
But for the first time, I don’t fight it.
“Then help me,” I whisper. “Help me burn it down.”
She leans in, her lips brushing mine. “Together.”
The bond flares, not with pain.
With power.
And for the first time, I let myself believe it.
That maybe—just maybe—this isn’t just a bond.
Maybe it’s a weapon.
And maybe, just maybe, we’re strong enough to wield it.
After all.
Fire doesn’t just destroy.
It renews.
And I’m ready to burn.
With her.
For her.
And if that means destroying the man who framed us both—
Then so be it.
Because this time—
This time, I won’t run.
Not from the bond.
Not from the truth.
Not from him.
I’ll stand.
I’ll fight.
And I’ll burn the world down to keep her.
—
Later, in my chambers, she carries me to the bed.
Not because I can’t walk—though my legs tremble, my balance gone—but because she won’t let me go. Her arms are tight around me, her breath hot on my skin, her scent flooding me, anchoring me.
She lays me down gently, then strips off her coat, her shirt, her boots—every piece of armor, every barrier—until she’s bare, her body a map of scars and muscle, her cock already half-hard, thick and heavy.
And then—
She strips me.
Slow. Deliberate. Her fingers brush the edge of my bandage, then the lace of my chemise, tugging it down, inch by inch, until it pools at my waist. The air is cool against my bare skin, but her heat seeps into me, a slow, relentless burn.
“You’re not in control here,” she murmurs, lips brushing my ear. “The bond is. The magic is. And right now, it’s screaming for completion.”
“I’m not your mate,” I whisper.
“You already are.” She tugs the chemise down, slowly, until it slips from my shoulders, pools at my hips. The water of the sacred spring wasn’t this intimate. This raw. This true.
And then—
She stops.
Just holds me. Her chest to my back, her arms around my waist, her cock pressing against my ass, hot and heavy through the fabric. The bond flares, stronger, hotter. It’s not just in my chest anymore—it’s in my blood, my bones, my breath.
“You feel it,” she says, voice low. “The pull. The heat. The way your body betrays you the second I touch you.”
“I’m not betraying anything,” I whisper.
“You’re trembling.”
I am.
Not from fear.
From need.
“You want me,” she says, hand sliding down, fingers brushing the curve of my hip. “You don’t have to say it. I can feel it.”
“I hate you,” I say, but my voice wavers.
“No.” Her hand slides between my thighs, not pushing, just holding, her thumb brushing the sensitive skin just above my pussy. “You hate that you want me. That you need me. That you can’t stop thinking about my hands on your skin, my mouth on your throat, my cock inside you.”
My breath hitches.
“And when you touch me?”
“I don’t want to pull away.” Tears spill down my cheeks. “I want to burn with you. To let you claim me. To be yours.”
She exhales, rough and broken.
And then—
She turns me.
In one motion, she spins me to face her, her hands on my waist, her eyes blazing. The room is dark, the torches low, but I can see her—every line of her face, every flicker of gold in her eyes, every pulse of the bond between us.
“Say it,” she growls. “Say you want me.”
“I can’t—”
“Say it.”
“I want you,” I whisper. “I hate you, but I want you.”
Her mouth crashes down on mine.
Not gentle.
Not sweet.
But hungry. Desperate. A claiming. Her tongue sweeps into my mouth, tasting, devouring, as if she’s been starving for this. My body arches, pressing against her, my core aching, my magic flaring.
Her hands slide down, fingers hooking into the lace of my panties—
And then—
A scream.
Not from her.
Not from me.
From the hallway.
We freeze, breaking the kiss, our breath coming fast, our eyes wide.
“Nyx,” I whisper.
And then—
She walks in.
Draped in my shirt. Her hair loose. A fresh bite mark on her neck.
And she’s smiling.
Circe’s Claim
The night Circe returns, the wolves howl in warning.
Dressed in black lace and lies, she steps into the heart of the Shadow Court — a witch reborn from ash, her fingers stained with the blood of ancient curses. She came for vengeance. Not love. Not him. But the second King Lysander grips her wrist during the welcoming rite, a jolt of primal magic sears through them both. Their scents clash — storm and midnight, iron and wild thyme — and the air crackles with forbidden recognition. A fated bond, long dormant, roars to life.
He sees through her mask — not her name, but her fire. And he wants to extinguish it… or claim it.
To stop a war between supernaturals, the Fae High Court demands a union: a blood-bonded pair to preside over the new Tribunal of Nine. The law is clear: only fated mates may serve. When the ritual confirms Circe and Lysander are bound, the room erupts. She’s meant to kill him. He’s meant to dominate her. Instead, they’re shackled together — politically, magically, sexually — and every touch sends shockwaves through their resolve.
But someone knows her secret. Someone has already begun poisoning Lysander’s mind, whispering that she was the one who betrayed his first mate. And when a rival appears — draped in his shirt, wearing his bite mark — Circe must fight not just for her mission, but for her place in his bed… and his soul.
Their bodies remember each other before their minds do. And in this world, desire is never just desire — it’s power, politics, and the most dangerous kind of truth.