The fever returns at dusk.
It hits like a blade to the spine—sudden, searing, *unrelenting*. One moment I’m pacing the length of our chambers, reviewing the stolen Purge ledger in my mind, mapping out who I can trust, where I can leak the truth. The next, my legs give out. I collapse against the wall, gasping, my vision fracturing into shards of gold and black.
The sigil on my collarbone—Kaelen—burns like a brand. Not just hot. *Alive*. Pulsing. Throbbing. It spreads through me, a wave of fire crawling beneath my skin, tightening my muscles, making my breath come in short, panicked bursts. My magic flickers at my fingertips—sparks of violet light that sputter and die, unstable, *uncontrollable*.
Bond fever.
I’ve seen it before. In the coven sanctuaries, in the hidden cells beneath Prague’s pleasure dens. A bonded pair, torn apart by war or betrayal. The magic rebels. The body tries to purge the connection. And if the bond isn’t reestablished within hours?
The witch burns from the inside out. Her own power turns against her, incinerating her nerves, her blood, her soul. By morning, there’s nothing left but ash and a scorched sigil on the floor.
I won’t let that happen.
I *can’t*.
I push myself up, stagger toward the door. I need space. I need air. I need to *think*. But the bond—*gods*, the bond—pulls me back, a magnetic force dragging me toward the one place I don’t want to go.
Our chambers.
Kaelen.
I make it to the corridor before my knees buckle. I catch myself on the cold fae-iron wall, my palm sliding against the metal, leaving a smear of sweat. The hall is dim, lit only by flickering torches enchanted with soul-light—ghost flames that feed on emotion. They flare as I pass, turning deep crimson, sensing my panic.
“No,” I whisper, pressing my forehead to the wall. “Not now. Not like this.”
But the fever doesn’t care about pride. Doesn’t care about plans. It only knows one thing: he is not here. And without him, I am unraveling.
I stumble forward, half-blind, my breath coming in ragged gasps. The corridor twists, the glamours thickening, turning the stone into liquid shadow. I don’t know where I’m going. I only know I can’t go back to him. Not after what I stole. Not after what he said.
I see what I helped build. And I don’t like it.
Lies. All of it. He’s playing me. Using the bond, using guilt, using *words* to make me doubt what I know. My mother burned. He watched. He signed the order. He stood there while they lit the pyre.
And now?
Now he wants me to trust him?
“F*ck you,” I hiss into the dark.
The sigil flares—white-hot—and I cry out, doubling over. My magic surges, uncontrolled, and a burst of violet flame erupts from my palm, scorching the wall. The torches scream, their flames turning black, then gold, then out.
Darkness.
I’m on my hands and knees, trembling, sweat slicking my back, my hair clinging to my neck. My teeth ache. My bones feel like they’re cracking. And between my legs—*gods*—heat pools, thick and insistent, a need so deep it borders on pain.
Not just physical. Not just magical.
Sexual.
The bond doesn’t just demand proximity. It demands *union*. Touch. Skin. *Release*.
And I want it.
I *hate* that I want it.
“Get up,” I snarl at myself. “Get up, you weak *bitch*.”
But my body won’t obey.
I crawl.
One hand. Then the other. Dragging myself forward like a wounded animal. The corridor narrows. The walls press in. And then—there. A door. Not one I’ve seen before. Unmarked. Iron-bound. Slightly ajar.
A storage closet.
Small. Dark. Empty except for a few cleaning cloths and a bucket of moon-dampened water. But it’s *hidden*. No glamours. No wards. Just stone and silence.
I drag myself inside. Slam the door shut behind me. Press my back to it, chest heaving, teeth gritted.
Safe.
Not really. But *hidden*.
I slide down the door, curl into a ball, wrap my arms around my knees. The fever rages. My skin burns. My magic flickers. And the need—*gods*, the need—coils low in my belly, tightening, *demanding*.
I press my thighs together, trying to stifle it. But it only makes it worse. The friction sends sparks through me, a jolt of pleasure so sharp it makes me whimper.
“No,” I whisper. “No, no, *no*.”
I can’t. I *won’t*. I won’t let the bond control me. I won’t let *him* control me.
But my body betrays me.
My hand moves on its own—down, over my stomach, beneath the waistband of my trousers. Just a touch. Just to *stop* the ache. Just to—
“Don’t.”
The voice is smooth. Cold. *Familiar*.
I freeze.
“Take your hand off yourself,” Kaelen says, stepping into the closet.
How? The door was shut. Locked. There were no footsteps. No sound.
But he’s here. Tall. Imposing. Gold eyes burning in the dark. His presence fills the tiny space, pressing against me, making the air thick, hard to breathe.
“Get out,” I hiss, yanking my hand back like it’s been burned.
He doesn’t move. Just watches me, expression unreadable. “You’re in bond fever. You need contact. *Skin* contact.”
“I don’t need *you*.”
“You do.”
“I’d rather die.”
“Then die,” he says, stepping closer. “But know this—when you do, the bond will drag me down with you. And I *will* make you suffer before I go.”
Same words. Same threat. But this time, I see it—the flicker in his eyes. Not cruelty. Not dominance.
Fear.
He’s afraid.
Of losing me?
Impossible.
“You don’t get to threaten me,” I say, voice shaking. “You don’t get to—”
“I’m not threatening you,” he interrupts, crouching in front of me. “I’m telling you the truth. The bond is *alive*. It doesn’t care about hate. It doesn’t care about revenge. It only knows *connection*. And right now, you’re severing it. You’re *killing* it. And when it dies, so do we.”
“Then let it die.”
“No.”
He reaches for me.
I slap his hand away. “Don’t touch me.”
“Then stop fighting it.”
“I’m not—”
“You are. You’re fighting *yourself*. Your body knows what it needs. Your magic knows. Even your *hate* knows. But your pride? Your pride is going to get you killed.”
I glare at him. “You don’t know me.”
“I know enough,” he says. “I know you came here to destroy me. I know you stole the Purge records. I know you’re planning to expose Voryn. And I know—*gods*, I *know*—that you’re terrified of wanting me.”
My breath catches.
“You don’t know *anything*.”
“I know this.” He grabs my wrist—gently, but firm—and pulls my hand to his chest. “Feel that?”
His heart. Thundering. Fast. *Human*.
“You think I’m untouchable?” he says. “You think I don’t feel this? The pull? The need? The *fire*? I do. Every second. Every breath. And I’m not fighting it anymore.”
“Then you’re weak.”
“No,” he says. “I’m *awake*.”
The bond flares—hot, urgent—and I gasp, arching into him despite myself. My skin burns. My magic surges. And between my legs, the ache *pulses*, deep and insistent.
“You feel it,” he murmurs. “You want this.”
“I want you *dead*.”
“Same thing.”
He pulls me forward, into his lap, one arm locking around my waist, the other hand cradling the back of my head. I struggle—weakly, uselessly—but he’s too strong. And the fever is too deep.
“Let go,” I whisper.
“Never.”
He presses his forehead to mine. “Close your eyes.”
“No.”
“*Close them*.”
I do.
And then—
Touch.
His hands on my back, sliding beneath my tunic, pressing against bare skin. Heat floods me—sharp, electric, *pleasurable*. I gasp, my body arching, pressing into him, seeking more.
“Breathe,” he says.
I can’t.
My lungs won’t work. My heart won’t stop racing. And the bond—*gods*, the bond—ignites, a spiral of blue-white fire racing through my veins, connecting us, *realigning*.
“You’re safe,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”
Lies. All lies.
But my body believes him.
My hands move on their own—up, over his shoulders, into his hair. My legs wrap around his waist. And my hips—*gods*, my hips—grind against him, seeking friction, seeking *release*.
“Circe,” he growls, voice rough, strained. “You need to stop.”
“No,” I whisper. “I need—”
“I know what you need.”
He shifts, pressing me back against the wall, his body pinning mine, his thigh sliding between my legs. The contact—*gods*, the contact—is unbearable. Pleasure rips through me, sharp and sudden, and I cry out, my head falling back, my nails digging into his shoulders.
“You feel that?” he murmurs, his breath hot against my neck. “That’s not the fever. That’s *us*.”
“It’s the bond,” I gasp.
“It’s *you*.”
His hand moves—down, over my hip, gripping my thigh, holding me in place. His other hand stays on my back, anchoring me, grounding me. And his thigh—*gods*, his thigh—presses harder, creating just enough friction to make me whimper, to make me *beg*.
“You want to come?” he asks, voice low, dark. “Then do it. Right here. On my leg. Let me feel you.”
“No,” I say, but my hips move, grinding, seeking.
“Yes.”
“I won’t—”
“You already are.”
And I am.
The pleasure builds—tight, coiling, *inescapable*. My breath comes fast. My skin burns. And the bond—*gods*, the bond—pulses with every beat of my heart, feeding the fire, stoking the need.
“Kaelen,” I whisper—his name on my lips, soft, broken.
And that’s all it takes.
My body clenches. My back arches. And I come—hard, sudden, *devastating*—a wave of pleasure so intense it feels like dying. My magic surges, uncontrolled, and violet light erupts from my skin, illuminating the closet, casting our shadows against the wall.
He holds me through it. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just lets me ride it out, his body pressed to mine, his breath hot against my neck.
When it’s over, I’m trembling. Weak. Spent.
And the fever?
It’s gone.
The sigil still burns on my collarbone, but the pain has dulled. The magic is stable. The need—*gods*, the need—is still there, but it’s quieter. Sated. *Connected*.
He doesn’t let go.
Just holds me, his arms tight around me, his face buried in my hair.
“You hate me,” I whisper.
“I know.”
“And I hate you.”
“I know.”
“Then why did you—”
“Because the bond doesn’t care about hate,” he says. “It only knows *truth*. And the truth is, you’re mine. And I’m yours. Whether we like it or not.”
I don’t answer.
Can’t.
Because beneath the hate, beneath the fire, beneath the blood and the lies and the centuries of war—
There’s something else.
Something I can’t name.
Something that terrifies me more than death.
He carries me back to our chambers—cradled in his arms, my head against his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath my ear. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t look at me. Just walks, silent, regal, *possessive*.
He lays me on the bed, pulls the covers over me, tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.
“Sleep,” he says.
“I won’t.”
“You will.”
He turns to leave.
“Kaelen,” I say.
He stops. Looks back.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say. “In the closet. You could have just—”
“Just what? Let you suffer? Let you die?” He shakes his head. “No. I won’t lose you. Not to the fever. Not to Voryn. Not to *yourself*.”
“And what if I want to be lost?”
“Then you’ll have to lose me first.”
He leaves.
I lie there, staring at the ceiling, the sigil on my collarbone pulsing softly—gold, like fire, like *his* eyes.
I came here to burn him.
Instead, he just saved my life.
And that terrifies me more than anything.
Because it means—
I’m not just fighting the Fae High Court.
I’m fighting *him*.
And I’m starting to wonder if I already lost.
I hate him.
I hate this.
Then why does it feel like coming home?