The fever came like a storm—sudden, violent, impossible to outrun. One moment I was standing at the edge of the bed, my gown pooled around my ankles, the scent of storm and iron thick in the air. The next, my knees buckled, my vision blurred, and the world spun into darkness.
I didn’t fall.
Kael caught me.
Not with magic. Not with shadow-walk. But with his arms—solid, unyielding, a fortress against the chaos in my blood. He lowered me to the mattress, his hands steady, his crimson eyes burning in the candlelight. The bond flared beneath my skin, a wildfire in my veins, but it wasn’t just the magic. It was the heat—coiling in my core, spreading through my limbs, drowning out thought, reason, *control.*
I was breaking.
And he was the only thing holding me together.
“Look at me,” he said, voice low, rough. “Crimson. Look at me.”
I tried. But my body wasn’t mine anymore. The lycan blood—dormant for decades—had awakened with the blood moon, and now it screamed through me, demanding release, demanding *claim.* My skin burned. My breath came in gasps. My core clenched, *aching,* though I couldn’t say why. Not desire. Not fear.
Hunger.
And then—scent.
Not just his—winter pine, dark earth, iron—but *mine.* Storm and fire. Blood and salt. And beneath it, something darker, muskier, *primal.* The scent of a female in heat.
It filled the room.
And Kael *inhaled.*
His nostrils flared. His pupils dilated. His jaw tightened. The bond flared—a hot spike of awareness that made his skin tighten, his breath hitch.
“You smell like defiance,” I managed, voice raw.
“And I’m going to devour every drop,” he said, voice rough.
And then—darkness.
—
I woke to pain.
Not the sharp bite of a blade. Not the burn of fire. But the deep, grinding ache of a body at war with itself. My muscles trembled. My bones felt like glass. My skin burned, slick with sweat, my gloves long since torn away. The room was dim, the fire reduced to embers, the blood moon still hanging full and crimson in the sky, its light bleeding through the barred windows.
Kael was beside me.
Not touching. Not watching. Just… there.
He sat on the edge of the bed, his coat gone, his shirt unbuttoned, his chest bare. His hands were clenched into fists, his knuckles white, his jaw tight. He wasn’t sleeping. Just sitting, his presence a wall at my back, his silence heavier than any vow.
And the bond?
It didn’t scream.
It *pulsed.*
Slow. Steady. Like a heartbeat.
“You’re awake,” he said, voice low.
“I’m burning,” I whispered, my throat raw.
“The fever hasn’t broken,” he said. “Not yet. But it will.”
“And you?” I asked, my breath hitching. “You’re not—”
“I’m fine,” he said. But his face was pale. His hands trembled. Blood still stained the corner of his lip—dark, thick, *wrong.*
“You’re not fine,” I said. “You’ve been here all night. You haven’t slept. You haven’t fed.”
“And if I had,” he said, “who would’ve held you when you screamed?”
My breath caught.
“You don’t remember,” he said. “But you did. Twice. Once when the fever spiked. Once when you dreamed of your mother.”
Tears burned behind my eyes. Not from the fever. From *him.* From the truth. From the way he’d chosen me. Again. Even when I didn’t deserve it.
“Why?” I whispered. “Why would you do that? Why would you stay?”
He didn’t answer. Just reached out, slow, and pressed the damp cloth to my forehead. His thumb brushed my temple, his touch feather-light, *reverent.* The bond flared—a hot pulse beneath my skin, like a star collapsing in his chest.
“You don’t get to decide that,” I said, voice breaking. “You don’t get to play martyr and expect me to *thank* you.”
“I don’t want your thanks,” he said. “I want your trust.”
“And if I give it?”
“Then I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure you never regret it.”
Tears spilled over. I didn’t wipe them away. Just reached up, my fingers brushing his cheek, his jaw, the blood at his lip. “You don’t get to die,” I whispered. “Not while I’m still breathing.”
He didn’t smile. Didn’t gloat. Just leaned in, his forehead resting against mine, his breath warm against my skin. “Then stay,” he said. “Stay with me. Fight with me. *Live* with me.”
My breath hitched.
And then—his hand slid down, over my hip, my thigh, then under my gown, fingers brushing the inside of my leg, slow, deliberate, *teasing.*
I gasped, my body arching, my hands flying to his shoulders for balance.
“You don’t get to touch me,” I hissed.
“I already do,” he said, his thumb circling, slow, torturous. “And you? You *crave* it.”
My breath came fast. My skin burned. My core clenched, *aching* for more.
And then—his fingers brushed my clit, slow, deliberate, through the fabric.
I *screamed.*
Not in pain.
In *pleasure.*
Sharp, blinding, *unbearable.* My back arched, my hips grinding against his hand, my body trembling. The bond *screamed,* a surge so intense I thought I’d die. My vision blurred. My heart pounded. My core clenched, *aching* for more.
“You don’t get to want me,” I hissed, my voice breaking. “You don’t get to *touch* me.”
“I already do,” he said, his fingers circling, slow, torturous. “And you? You *crave* it.”
I slapped him.
He didn’t stop.
Just laughed—a low, dark sound—and pressed harder.
I came.
Shuddering, gasping, *breaking.* My body convulsed, my thighs clamping around his hand, my nails digging into his shoulders. The bond *screamed,* a wildfire in my veins, burning through every lie, every wall, every reason I had to hate him.
And when it was over, I collapsed against him, my breath ragged, my skin burning.
He didn’t let go.
Just held me, his arms tight around my waist, his face buried in my neck. “You’re already mine,” he murmured, his voice rough, his breath warm against my skin. “Even if you don’t know it yet.”
I wanted to hate him.
Wanted to push him away.
But all I could do was cling to him, my fingers digging into his coat, my body still trembling from the aftershocks.
Because the truth was worse than I’d imagined.
I wasn’t here to kill the Hollow King.
I was here to survive him.
And if I wasn’t careful, I’d end up wanting to keep him.
And that—more than any blade, more than any bond—was the one thing I couldn’t afford.
But as I stood there, pressed against the bed, his body a furnace against mine, his hand still between my thighs, I realized something.
It was too late.
I already did.
I already *wanted* him.
Not just because of the bond.
Not just because of the mission.
But because he’d *fought* for her.
Because he’d *failed* trying.
Because he was broken—and still standing.
Just like me.
And maybe—just maybe—that was enough.
—
The fever broke at dawn.
Not with a scream. Not with a climax. But with stillness.
One moment, the heat was coiling in my core, my body trembling, my breath ragged. The next—silence. The fire in my blood cooled. The ache in my muscles faded. The scent of storm and iron—mine, his, *ours*—lingered, but the hunger was gone.
I opened my eyes.
Kael was still there.
Still on the edge of the bed. Still shirtless. Still watching.
But now, his eyes were closed. His head was bowed. His breathing was slow, steady, *deep.* He’d finally slept.
And I hadn’t.
Not really.
Just drifted in and out of consciousness, caught between fever dreams and reality. I’d seen my mother. Seen Kael on his knees. Seen Nyx’s lies. Seen Vexis’s arrest. Seen the locket. Seen the blood-debt.
And I’d seen *us.*
Not as enemies. Not as weapons. Not as pawns in a Council game.
As *mates.*
And for the first time, I didn’t fight it.
Because the truth was worse than I’d imagined.
I wasn’t here to kill the Hollow King.
I was here to love him.
And that was the most dangerous thought of all.
—
I reached out.
Slow. Hesitant.
My fingers brushed his cheek, his jaw, the scar at his lip. He didn’t wake. Just leaned into the touch, a soft sigh escaping his lips.
And then—my hand moved.
Not to push him away.
Not to fight.
To his chest.
I pressed my palm to his heart, feeling the steady, powerful beat beneath the skin. The bond flared—a surge so intense I thought I’d combust. My core clenched, *aching.* My breath came fast. My skin burned.
But not from fever.
From *want.*
“You don’t get to touch me,” I whispered, echoing his words.
He didn’t answer. Just shifted, his body rolling toward me, his arm sliding around my waist, pulling me against him. His skin was warm. His breath steady. His presence a wall at my back.
And for the first time, I didn’t pull away.
Just curled into him, my head on his chest, my fingers tangled in the fabric of his shirt. The bond pulsed, a slow, steady rhythm, like a heartbeat.
Not a leash.
Not a curse.
A *promise.*
“You were right,” I said, voice low. “But I still don’t know if I can trust you.”
He didn’t move. Just held me, his breath warm against my skin.
And then—softly—he said, “And I don’t know if I can trust you either.
But I know this—I can’t live without you.”
And for the first time since I’d entered the Obsidian Spire, I didn’t want to run.
I wanted to *stay.*
Because the truth was worse than I’d imagined.
I wasn’t here to kill the Hollow King.
I was here to love him.
And that was the most dangerous thought of all.