The first thing I feel is the burn.
Not the fire from the palace—the flames that roared through the east wing, melted stone, turned air to ash. That pain is distant now, muffled beneath layers of fever and magic gone wild. No, this burn is deeper. Older. It’s in my blood. In my bones. In the bond that’s tearing itself apart inside me.
I’m dying.
Not slowly. Not quietly.
From the inside out.
My skin is on fire. My breath comes in ragged gasps, each one scraping my throat like glass. My magic—wild, untamed, always just a breath away from chaos—is spiraling, lashing out in bursts of storm-light that crackle across my arms, my chest, my face. I can’t control it. Can’t stop it. It’s like my body knows the bond is failing. Like it’s trying to survive the collapse by burning everything it can.
And Kaelen—
He’s holding me.
Not gently. Not carefully.
Like I’m something worth saving.
We’re on the obsidian platform at the edge of Veridion, where the floating city meets the mist-wrapped mountains. The night air is sharp with frost, the moon swollen and silver above us. Behind us, the palace burns—flames licking the sky, smoke coiling like serpents into the dark. Fae soldiers are still inside, hunting. Queen Isolde is still alive. The Soul-Key is still in my pocket, pulsing faintly, like a dying star.
But none of that matters.
Not now.
Because I’m breaking.
And he’s the only thing holding me together.
“Nebula.” His voice is rough, raw, close to my ear. “Look at me.”
I try. My eyes flutter open, but the world is blurred, shifting. His face comes in and out of focus—his sharp jaw, his golden eyes, the scar across his throat. My mother’s curse. I reach for it, my fingers trembling, my magic flaring at my fingertips.
He catches my hand. Presses it to his chest. Over his heart.
And the bond—
It shrieks.
Not with heat. Not with desire.
With agony.
“You’re not dying,” he growls, his arm tightening around me. “Not tonight. Not like this.”
“It’s the fever,” I whisper, my voice cracking. “The bond-sickness. Seven days. We didn’t… we didn’t claim each other.”
“Then we will.”
“No.” I shake my head, even though it makes the world spin. “Not like this. Not because we have to.”
“Then because you want to.” His thumb brushes my lower lip. “Because you’re mine. Because I’m yours. Because if we don’t do this now, you’ll die in my arms—and I’ll burn this world to ash trying to bring you back.”
My breath hitches.
And for the first time, I see it—not the Alpha King. Not the cold, controlled ruler.
But the man.
Broken. Desperate. Hers.
Before I can answer, Dain appears at the edge of the platform, his scarred face grim, his blade still in hand. “Sire,” he says, voice tight. “The Fae are regrouping. They’ll be here within minutes. We need to move.”
Kaelen doesn’t look at him. Just keeps his eyes on me. “There’s a ritual,” he says. “An old one. From before the Accord. It can stabilize the bond. But it requires blood. Shared. Mouth to mouth.”
My pulse spikes.
“Like a vampire’s bond?” I whisper.
“No.” His voice drops. “This isn’t about control. It’s about life. If we don’t do it, the fever will consume you. If we do—”
“—we’ll be bound deeper,” I finish. “Not just by fate. By choice. By blood.”
He nods. “And if you say no, I’ll carry you to the edge of the world and let the wind take us both.”
I don’t laugh. Don’t cry.
I just press my forehead to his, my breath mingling with his, the bond humming between us like a live wire.
“Do it,” I whisper.
He doesn’t hesitate.
He pulls a dagger from his belt—black iron, etched with wolf-runes—and presses the blade to his palm. Blood wells, dark and thick, dripping onto the stone. He brings his hand to his mouth, sucks the wound closed, then leans in.
And kisses me.
Not soft. Not slow.
Claiming.
His lips crash into mine, hot and demanding, his blood flooding my mouth—coppery, warm, alive. I gasp, but don’t pull away. Instead, I arch into him, my hands fisting in his coat, my body pressing against his. The bond explodes—a surge of heat, of magic, of merging—our powers fusing, our breaths tangling, our souls screaming.
But it’s not enough.
The fever still burns. The magic still rages. The bond still cracks.
“Again,” I choke, pulling back just enough to speak. “More.”
He doesn’t argue.
He presses the blade to his wrist this time, deeper, drawing a line of blood that pulses with his heartbeat. He brings it to my lips.
“Drink,” he says.
I do.
My mouth closes over the wound, my tongue flicking against the cut, my magic flaring—wild, bright, hers—crackling up my arms like lightning. The blood is hot. Thick. His. It floods my veins, not with magic, but with something deeper—connection. Truth. Need.
And then—
The bond snaps back into place.
Not with a scream.
With a song.
It wraps around us, not as a tether, but as a promise. The fever recedes. The magic stills. My body relaxes, my breath slowing, my pulse steadying. I’m still burning—but not from sickness. From him.
He pulls back, his eyes searching mine. “You’re okay?”
I nod, my voice weak. “Better. The fever… it’s gone.”
“For now,” he says. “But the bond is still unstable. We’ll need to do this again. Soon.”
“How soon?”
“Before dawn.”
My breath catches. “That’s not enough time.”
“Then we’ll make it.”
Dain clears his throat. “Sire. We need to move. Now.”
Kaelen rises, pulling me with him. My legs are weak, but I stand. The bond hums beneath my skin, steady, sure. Stronger than before. Deeper.
“Where?” I ask.
“The northern cabin,” he says. “It’s warded. Isolated. No one will find us.”
“And the Soul-Key?”
“You keep it.” He presses his hand to my pocket, over the artifact. “No one else touches it.”
I don’t argue. Just nod.
We move.
Through the mist, down the narrow path that leads to the mountain’s edge. The skimmer is gone—destroyed in the attack—but Kaelen doesn’t hesitate. He lifts me into his arms, his body a furnace against the cold, and carries me like I weigh nothing.
I don’t protest. Don’t fight.
I just press my face to his chest, my breath hot on his skin, the bond humming between us like a second heartbeat.
The cabin is small—wooden, hidden among the pines, its roof dusted with snow. No windows. No doors visible from the front. Just a single rune etched into the stone threshold. Kaelen presses his palm to it. The door appears, groaning open.
Inside—dark. Cold. But safe.
He sets me down gently, then turns to Dain. “Guard the path. No one gets close.”
“Sire—”
“That’s an order.”
Dain hesitates, then nods. “I’ll be at the ridge. Call if you need me.”
He disappears into the mist.
Kaelen seals the door behind him, then turns to me. The fire is already lit—magic, not match—its glow casting long shadows across the room. A single bed. A table. A chest in the corner. Nothing else.
“You should rest,” he says, stepping closer.
“I’m not tired.”
“You’re lying.”
“The bond doesn’t lie,” I counter.
“No,” he says, cupping my jaw, his thumb brushing my lower lip. “But you do. And right now, it’s screaming that you’re exhausted. That you’re scared. That you’re… mine.”
My breath hitches.
And for the first time, I don’t fight it.
I lean into his touch, my eyes closing, my body swaying toward him. The bond flares—just a spark, but enough to make him growl low in his chest.
“You should’ve let me die,” I whisper.
“And I should’ve let you burn me to ash,” he says. “But we didn’t. Because we’re not done yet.”
“And when we are?”
“Then we’ll burn together.”
I don’t answer.
Just rise onto my toes and kiss him—soft, slow, hers.
And the bond—
It doesn’t scream.
It sings.
Later, we sit by the fire, the silence between us thick but not heavy. He’s beside me, close enough that our thighs touch, his presence a wall of heat. I’m wrapped in a thick wool blanket, my head resting on his shoulder, the bond humming beneath my skin. The fever is gone. The magic is still. But something else is awake.
Desire.
It coils in my gut, low and insistent, a heat that has nothing to do with the bond-sickness and everything to do with the man beside me. The way his breath feels against my neck. The way his hand rests on my knee, warm and heavy. The way his voice drops when he says my name.
“You should’ve let her go,” I say, breaking the silence. “Lysara. In the east wing. You could’ve left her to burn.”
“And you would’ve hated me for it,” he says. “Even if you didn’t say it.”
“Maybe.” I lift my head, look at him. “But I hate you anyway.”
“Good.” He brushes his thumb over my lower lip. “Hate me. Every damn day. Just don’t stop wanting me.”
My breath catches.
And before I can think, before I can stop myself—
I kiss him.
Not soft. Not slow.
Furious.
My lips crash into his, teeth and tongue and fire. He groans, his grip tightening, his other hand tangling in my hair, pulling me deeper. The bond explodes—a surge of heat, of magic, of merging—our powers fusing, our breaths tangling, our bodies remembering what our minds have denied.
He spins me, presses me back against the wall—cold wood, sharp edges, the scent of pine and storm. His body is a furnace, his hands everywhere—cupping my jaw, sliding down my spine, gripping my hips. My legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, needing him closer.
And then—
His hand slips beneath my tunic.
Warm. Rough. Claiming.
The world narrows to his touch, to the heat between us, to the way the bond screams in triumph.
And I don’t care.
I don’t care about the past. About the lies. About the fire that took my family.
All I care about is this.
Is him.
Is the way he makes me feel—alive, seen, wanted.
His fingers trail up my ribs, calloused, possessive, and I moan into his mouth, my back arching, my magic flaring—wild, bright, hers—crackling up his arms like lightning.
He growls, low and feral, his hips grinding against mine, his arousal unmistakable, pressing into my core. The bond burns, not with pain, but with need. Seven days. That’s all we have before the fever sets in, before the madness starts, before we’re forced to claim each other.
But I don’t want it to be forced.
I want it to be mine.
“Kaelen,” I breathe, pulling back just enough to speak, my lips still brushing his. “I want—”
And then—
The bond flares.
Not with heat. Not with desire.
With warning.
We freeze.
He pulls back, his eyes searching mine. “The fever,” he whispers. “It’s returning.”
I nod, my breath coming fast. “We need to do it again. Now.”
He doesn’t hesitate.
He presses the blade to his wrist, draws a fresh line of blood. Brings it to my lips.
“Drink,” he says.
I do.
My mouth closes over the wound, my tongue flicking against the cut, my magic flaring, my body arching into his. The blood floods my veins, hot and thick, and the fever recedes, the bond settling, the heat between us shifting from lust to something deeper.
Trust.
He pulls back, his thumb brushing my lower lip, wiping away the blood. “You’re not just my mate,” he says, voice rough. “You’re my revolution.”
I don’t answer.
Just rise onto my toes and kiss him—soft, slow, hers.
And the bond—
It doesn’t scream.
It sings.
Outside, the wind howls.
But inside—
We are quiet.
Safe.
Together.
And for the first time since the fire—
I don’t feel alone.
And that terrifies me more than any truth.