The journal page burns in my hand.
I don’t look at it. Not yet. I clutch it like a wound, fingers curled so tight the parchment crumples at the edges. My breath comes in shallow gasps as I walk—no, stagger—down the moonlit corridor, my boots silent on the cold stone. The castle feels different now. Heavier. Closer. The shadows press in, the air thick with the scent of old magic and something darker: *him*.
Kaelen.
His touch still lingers on my skin. His voice echoes in my skull. The memory of his mouth on mine—soft at first, then desperate, hungry—sends a traitorous heat low in my belly. I should feel rage. I should feel betrayal. I *do* feel them. But beneath it all, pulsing like a second heartbeat, is something else.
Want.
And that terrifies me more than any lie.
I told him I came for the truth. And for a moment—just one breathless, devastating moment—I believed he was giving it to me. He showed me records. Council transcripts. A sealed affidavit from a werewolf elder who witnessed Malrik ordering the execution. He even played a glamoured recording—my mother’s voice, clear and strong: *“Kaelen tried to stop them. He fought. He bled. But they overpowered him.”*
And then… he kissed me.
Not rough. Not demanding. But *aching*. Like he’d waited centuries to taste me. Like I was water and he’d been dying of thirst. I should’ve pushed him away. Slapped him. Drawn blood.
Instead, I kissed him back.
My body arched into his, my hands fisted in his hair, my heat flaring so violently I thought I’d combust. The sigil on my spine ignited, a wildfire beneath my skin. I felt the bond surge—our pulses syncing, our breaths tangling, our magic colliding like storm and flame.
And then he stopped.
Pulled back. Looked into my eyes with something like sorrow.
“There’s more,” he said, voice raw. “But you’re not ready.”
“Then show me *now*,” I demanded.
He hesitated. Then reached for a locked drawer in his desk. Opened it. Pulled out a leather-bound journal.
And that’s when I saw it.
One page, loose. Slipped from the binding. Lying half-hidden beneath a stack of Council decrees.
“She must never know the full truth.”
I snatched it before he could react. He didn’t stop me. Just watched, his crimson eyes full of something I couldn’t name—regret? Fear? Relief?
And then I ran.
Now, as I reach my chambers, my legs tremble. Not from exhaustion. From the fever.
The bond fever.
It hits me like a sledgehammer—sudden, brutal. My vision blurs. My skin burns. My spine ignites, the sigil flaring white-hot, searing through muscle and bone. I stumble, catching myself against the wall. My breath comes in ragged gasps. Sweat slicks my back, my hair, my neck. The heat between my thighs is unbearable—a pulsing, throbbing need that has nothing to do with desire and everything to do with magic.
This is what happens when fated mates deny the bond.
The magic festers. The body rebels. And if we don’t consummate within seven days, we’ll die in agony.
I’ve taken the Omega suppressants. I’ve fought the lunar pull. But this—this is different. This is the bond itself, screaming for completion. It doesn’t care about vengeance. Doesn’t care about lies or secrets or the blood on Kaelen’s hands.
All it wants is *him*.
I fumble with the door, my fingers numb. The wards flare as I press my palm to the sigil, but I’m too weak to whisper the incantation. I slam my fist against the stone. “Open, damn you!”
The runes flicker. The door groans open.
I collapse inside, kicking it shut behind me. The room spins. I crawl to the bed, my body wracked with tremors. The fever climbs—39°C. 40°C. My teeth chatter. My muscles spasm. I tear at my tunic, desperate for air, for coolness, for *relief*.
But there is none.
The sigil burns. The bond hums. And somewhere, deep in the castle, *he* feels it too.
I know he does.
Because even through the pain, I can feel him—his pulse, his fear, his *need*. He’s coming. I don’t know how I know. I just do. The bond is a live wire, and right now, it’s screaming.
I try to reach for a dagger. My fingers brush the hilt, but I can’t lift it. My arms are lead. My breath is fire. My vision tunnels.
And then—
The door explodes inward.
Not broken. Not forced.
*Shattered.*
Black smoke coils through the gap, solidifying into a figure—tall, broad, wrapped in shadows. Kaelen.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t hesitate. He crosses the room in three strides, his boots silent on the stone. His eyes—crimson now, fully shifted—are locked on me.
“Morgana.”
My name. A plea. A command.
I try to snarl. To curse him. But all that comes out is a whimper.
He drops to his knees beside the bed. His hands—cold, steady—brush my hair from my face. “Bond fever. I felt it. I’m here.”
“Go… to hell,” I gasp.
“Not yet.” He strips off his coat, then his shirt, revealing a chest carved from shadow and muscle. “I’m not letting you die.”
“Wouldn’t… care,” I lie.
He doesn’t answer. Just lifts me—effortless, like I weigh nothing—and lays me on my back. His fingers work at the laces of my tunic. “I have to cool you. The fever will burn you alive.”
“Don’t… touch me,” I choke.
“Too late for that.”
He pulls the tunic over my head. My breasts are bare, my skin flushed, my nipples tight with fever and something else. His breath hitches. His pupils dilate. I see it—the hunger, the *want*—but he doesn’t look away. Doesn’t flinch.
“You’re burning up,” he murmurs.
“So… leave.”
“No.”
He presses his palm to my stomach. Cold. So cold. I gasp, arching into the touch. The fever recedes—just slightly—but the heat between my thighs surges, unbearable, *needing*.
His hand moves down, skimming my hip, my thigh, the curve of my ass. Not sexual. Not yet. Just… assessing. But every touch sends sparks through me. My body betrays me, arching, *seeking*.
Then—
His fingers brush the small of my back.
The sigil.
And it *ignites*.
Not just a glow. A *flare*. Golden fire erupts beneath my skin, spreading across my spine like wildfire. The runes burn bright, pulsing in time with my heartbeat. Kaelen freezes.
His breath stops.
His eyes—crimson, feral—widen.
“Gods,” he whispers.
“What?” I gasp. “What is it?”
He doesn’t answer. Just stares at the sigil, his fingers tracing the glowing lines. His touch is electric. My body arches, a moan tearing from my throat. The fever fades—replaced by something worse. Something *deeper*.
Need.
Pure, unrelenting, *maddening* need.
“You’re not just Fireblood,” he murmurs, voice rough. “You’re *the* Fireblood. The one in the prophecy.”
“Prophecy… what prophecy?”
But he doesn’t answer. Just leans down, his lips brushing the sigil. Not a kiss. A *vow*.
Fire surges through me. My back bows. My hands fist in the sheets. My heat flares—so violently I cry out.
He pulls back. His eyes meet mine. “I have to get you to the Moon Garden. The silver willows. Their sap can cool the fever.”
“No,” I pant. “No… outside. Guards. They’ll see.”
“I don’t care.” He lifts me again, cradling me against his bare chest. “You’re dying, Morgana. And I’m not losing you. Not like this.”
He carries me through the shattered door, down the corridor, past startled servants who drop to their knees as he passes. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t explain. Just moves—fast, silent, *relentless*.
The Moon Garden is hidden beneath the castle, accessible only by a spiral staircase warded with iron sigils. He doesn’t pause. Just presses his palm to the seal, whispering a single word in Old Tongue. The runes flare. The door opens.
Inside, the air is thick with the scent of silver willow and moonflower. The trees weep over black pools, their leaves glowing faintly. The ground is soft with moss. And in the center—a single, ancient willow, its trunk gnarled, its sap oozing like liquid moonlight.
Kaelen lays me beneath it. Kneels. Presses his palm to the bark. A low hum fills the air. The tree responds—sap rising, dripping from a wound in the trunk.
He catches it in his hands. Then turns to me.
“This will hurt,” he says.
“Everything… hurts,” I gasp.
He nods. Then lifts my tunic—just enough to expose the sigil. His fingers dip into the sap. Cold. So cold it burns.
And then he presses it to my spine.
I scream.
Not from pain. From *relief*.
The fever breaks—shattering like glass. The fire in my veins cools. My muscles unclench. My breath evens. But the heat between my thighs—oh, *gods*—it’s worse. Sharper. Deeper. *Hungrier*.
Kaelen doesn’t stop. He spreads the sap across the sigil, his fingers tracing every line, every curve. His touch is reverent. Awe-filled. And with every stroke, the bond flares—our pulses syncing, our breaths tangling, our magic colliding.
He leans down. His lips brush my ear. “You’re so beautiful like this. Burning. Mine.”
“I’m not… yours,” I whisper, even as my hips lift, seeking friction.
“You already are.”
His hand moves—down, over my hip, between my thighs. Not inside. Not yet. Just a slow, maddening stroke over the fabric of my pants. I gasp. Arch. *Need*.
“Please,” I beg. The word slips out before I can stop it.
He stills. Looks at me. “Say it again.”
“Please…”
“Say my name.”
“Kaelen…”
He groans. Low. Deep. His eyes close. For a moment, I think he’ll take me. Right here. Right now. Claim me with his mouth, his hands, his *body*.
But then—he pulls back.
“No,” he says, voice rough. “Not like this. Not while you’re weak. Not while the fever’s still in your blood.”
“Then when?” I demand, my voice breaking. “When will you stop torturing me?”
He stands. Turns away. His back is rigid, his fists clenched. “When you choose me. Not because of the bond. Not because of the fever. But because you *want* me. Because you *trust* me.”
“I’ll never trust you.”
He looks over his shoulder. “Then you’ll burn.”
I want to hate him. Want to believe he’s toying with me. But I see it—his control, his *restraint*. He could have taken me. Could have claimed me. But he didn’t.
Why?
Because he’s waiting. For *me*.
The realization hits me like a blade.
He’s not the monster I thought he was.
But that doesn’t mean he’s innocent.
I sit up slowly. The fever’s gone. But the heat remains—low, insistent, *unrelenting*. I pull my tunic back into place. Don’t look at him.
“You saw the journal,” I say, voice flat. “The page. *‘She must never know the full truth.’*”
He doesn’t deny it. Just turns. “There are things you’re not ready for.”
“Like what? What are you hiding?”
“The prophecy. The Bloodfire Uprising. Your mother’s real role. My father’s betrayal. If I tell you now, it’ll break you. And I can’t lose you.”
“You don’t get to decide what I can handle.”
“I do,” he says, stepping closer. “Because if you die—*I* die. The bond won’t survive it. And neither will I.”
My breath catches. “You’d die for me?”
“I’ve been dead since the day you left.”
The words gut me.
I want to believe him. Want to let myself fall. But the journal page burns in my pocket. The lie. The *secrets*.
“Then prove it,” I say. “Prove you’re not just using me. Prove you’re not the Council’s puppet.”
“How?”
“Give me the journal. All of it. No more lies. No more half-truths.”
He stares at me. Then nods. “Tomorrow. After the Council session. I’ll give it to you.”
“And if you don’t?”
“Then you can kill me.”
I stand. Step toward him. Close enough to feel his heat, his scent, the pulse of the bond. “You’d let me?”
“I’ve done nothing but deserve it.”
My hand lifts—slow, deliberate. I touch his chest. Feel his heart—strong, steady, *mine*. “Then why do I feel like you’re the only one who’s ever tried to save me?”
He doesn’t answer. Just covers my hand with his. Pulls it to his lips. Kisses my palm.
And for the first time…
I don’t pull away.
He carries me back to my chambers. Not through the corridors. Not past the guards.
Through the shadows.
One moment, we’re in the Moon Garden. The next, we’re in my room—black smoke coiling, then dissipating. He lays me on the bed. Pulls the covers over me.
“Rest,” he says. “The fever’s broken. But you’re not out of danger.”
“Neither are you,” I whisper.
He smiles—just a ghost of one. Then turns to go.
“Kaelen.”
He stops.
“Don’t make me regret trusting you.”
He looks back. “I’d rather die than do that.”
And then he’s gone—vanishing into the shadows like smoke.
I lie there, staring at the ceiling. The sigil still glows faintly beneath my skin. The bond hums—soft, steady, *insistent*.
I pull the journal page from my pocket. Smooth it out. Stare at the words.
“She must never know the full truth.”
But I will.
Tomorrow.
And when I do…
I’ll decide if he’s my salvation.
Or my ruin.
The fever’s gone.
But the fire?
That’s just beginning.