The first thing I feel when I press my mouth to his wound is the taste of death.
Not just blood—thick, hot, metallic, flooding my tongue—but something darker. Colder. A slow, creeping rot beneath the surface, seeping into his veins like poison. The blade was cursed. Fae-forged. Meant to kill more than flesh. Meant to sever soul from body, magic from blood, bond from heart. And it’s working.
Kaelen lies in my arms, his golden eyes dimming, his breath shallow, his body already going cold. I cradle him against me, my legs tucked beneath us on the stone floor of the vault, his head resting in the crook of my elbow. The Heartstone pulses faintly above us, its light flickering like a dying star, but it doesn’t matter. None of it matters if he’s gone.
“No,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “You don’t get to die. Not like this. Not after everything.”
He tries to smile. Weak. Fading. “You… always hated me,” he rasps. “Now’s your… chance.”
“I don’t hate you,” I say, pressing my lips harder to the wound, my magic flaring at my fingertips. “I never did. I just didn’t want to love you.”
The bond screams—not in pain, not in heat.
In grief.
It’s still there. Still alive. Still ours. But it’s unraveling, thread by thread, as his heartbeat slows, as his breath grows thinner, as the curse eats through him like fire through dry wood. I can feel it—the slow, deliberate decay. The way his magic is being poisoned at the root. The way his wolf is retreating, whimpering beneath his skin, knowing it’s losing its mate.
And I rage.
Not quietly. Not calmly.
Furious.
I rip the blade from his chest—black metal, etched with Fae runes that glow faintly with stolen life—and hurl it across the chamber. It strikes the wall and shatters, the pieces dissolving into ash. But the damage is done.
“Dain!” I scream. “Get the High Priestess. Now!”
He’s already moving, his boots echoing down the corridor, his wolf snarling beneath his skin. But I know. I can feel it in the bond, in the way Kaelen’s pulse stutters beneath my fingers. We don’t have time.
“Then I’ll do it myself,” I whisper.
I press my palms to his chest, over the wound, and let my magic burn.
Not wild. Not uncontrolled.
Precise.
Every witch knows the cost of healing. Blood for blood. Breath for breath. Life for life. And I don’t care. I’d give every drop if it meant he stayed with me.
My magic flares—wild, bright, hers—crackling up my arms like lightning, searing through my veins, flooding into his body. I feel the curse resist—cold, sharp, ancient—but I push harder, deeper, forcing my power into the wound, into his heart, into the very core of his being. The sigil on my wrist burns—hot, alive, awake—and the bond screams in protest, not from pain, but from the sheer force of what I’m doing.
I’m not just healing him.
I’m rebirthing him.
“Nebula,” he gasps, his fingers twitching, his eyes fluttering open. “Stop… you’ll die…”
“And if I do,” I say, my voice rough, raw, “then we die together. But I’m not letting you go. Not now. Not ever.”
I lean down, press my lips to his—not in passion, not in desire, but in ritual. My breath flows into his, mine into his, our magic merging, our souls tangling. The bond explodes—a surge of heat, of light, of merging—our powers fusing, our breaths tangling, our bodies remembering what our minds have denied.
And then—
I feel it.
The curse breaking.
Not all at once. Not easily. But piece by piece, thread by thread, it unravels, consumed by the heat of my magic, by the truth of the bond, by the sheer, stubborn force of my love. His heartbeat steadies. His breath deepens. His skin warms beneath my hands.
But I don’t stop.
I can’t.
Because I know what’s coming.
The fever.
It’s already rising—low in my gut, a slow, insistent pulse that thrums in time with the bond. Without the blood oaths to stabilize it, without the Heartstone’s light to calm it, the bond-heat will consume us. And this time, there’s no ritual. No delay. No choice.
It’s happening.
Now.
“Nebula,” Kaelen murmurs, his voice stronger, his eyes clearer. “The fever…”
“I know,” I say, pressing my forehead to his. “And I don’t care.”
“You should.” His hand finds mine, his fingers interlacing with mine. “You don’t have to do this. Not like this.”
“But I want to,” I say, lifting my head, my dark eyes blazing. “Not because the bond demands it. Not because the fever drives me. But because I do.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just cups my jaw, his thumb brushing my lower lip. “Then let me be the one to take care of you.”
And then—
He flips us.
Not with force. Not with dominance.
With care.
One moment, I’m above him. The next, he’s over me, his body a furnace, his presence a wall of heat, his golden eyes molten, feral, hers. He doesn’t crush me. Doesn’t pin me. Just lowers himself slowly, carefully, like I’m something fragile. Something precious.
“You don’t have to be gentle,” I whisper, my hands sliding up his chest, over the fresh scar where the blade pierced him. “I’m not breakable.”
“No,” he says, his voice rough. “You’re unbreakable. But you’re also mine. And I’m not going to take you like a man starved. I’m going to love you.”
And then—
He kisses me.
Not furious. Not desperate.
Slow.
His lips brush mine, gentle, searching, like he’s testing the truth of his words. I don’t deepen it. Don’t pull him closer. Just let him kiss me—let him take what he needs. His hands slide beneath my tunic—warm, rough, claiming—and I arch into his touch, my back hitting the stone, my magic flaring, my body trembling.
He doesn’t rush.
Doesn’t tear at my clothes.
Just peels them away—layer by layer—his fingers tracing every scar, every curve, every place where fire once burned. When he reaches the burn on my side—the one from the coven fire—he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. Just leans down and kisses it. Soft. Reverent. Like it’s a sacred thing.
And I break.
Not from pain. Not from grief.
From love.
Tears spill down my cheeks, hot and silent, and he catches them with his thumb, his eyes never leaving mine. “You carry your fire like armor,” he murmurs. “Let me carry it with you.”
And then—
He moves lower.
His lips trail down my stomach, over the curve of my hip, his breath hot against my skin. His hands slide under my thighs, lifting me, and I gasp, my fingers tangling in his hair, my magic flaring—wild, bright, hers—crackling up his arms like lightning.
“Kaelen,” I breathe, my voice shaking. “I want—”
“I know,” he says, his voice muffled against my skin. “And you’ll have it. All of it. Every part of me.”
And then—
He tastes me.
Not tentative. Not careful.
Claiming.
His tongue flicks over my clit, slow, deliberate, and I cry out, my back arching, my hips lifting off the stone. He groans, low and feral, his hands gripping my thighs, holding me in place as he devours me—slow, deep, relentless. The bond burns—not with pain, not with fever.
With need.
My magic flares—uncontrolled, wild, hers—and the chamber trembles, the runes on the walls glowing faintly, the Heartstone pulsing above us. I don’t care. I don’t think. I just feel—the heat of his mouth, the pressure of his tongue, the way his fingers slide inside me, stretching me, filling me, making me his.
“Kaelen,” I sob, my fingers tightening in his hair. “I’m—”
“Let go,” he growls, his voice vibrating against my skin. “Let me feel you.”
And I do.
I come—hard, shattering, loud—my magic exploding in a wave of light and heat, the bond screaming in triumph. He doesn’t stop. Just drinks me in, his tongue circling my clit, his fingers curling inside me, pushing me higher, deeper, until I’m trembling, sobbing, begging for mercy.
And then—
He rises.
Slow. Controlled. His body a wall of heat, his eyes molten gold, his cock hard, thick, ready. He doesn’t push inside. Doesn’t force it.
Just waits.
“Nebula,” he says, his voice rough. “Say it. Tell me you want this.”
I don’t hesitate.
“I want you,” I say, my voice raw. “Not because of the bond. Not because of the fever. But because I do. Because you’re mine. Because I’m yours. Because I love you.”
And then—
He enters me.
Slow. Deep. Complete.
I gasp, my body stretching to take him, my magic flaring, the bond screaming in triumph. He doesn’t move. Just stays there, buried inside me, his forehead pressed to mine, his breath mingling with mine.
“Look at me,” he whispers.
I do.
And for the first time, I see it—
Not the Alpha King.
Not the cold, controlled ruler.
But the man.
Broken. Weeping. Mine.
He begins to move—slow, deep, deliberate—each thrust a promise, each stroke a vow. I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, needing him closer. My magic flares—wild, bright, hers—crackling up his arms like lightning. His growls low in his chest, his hips grinding against mine, his arousal unmistakable, pressing into my core.
“You’re not just my mate,” I whisper, my fingers brushing his jaw. “You’re my revolution.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just kisses me—soft, slow, hers.
And the bond—
It doesn’t scream.
It sings.
Not in magic.
Not in power.
In love.
Later, we lie tangled together on the stone, the fire in the hearth crackling, the Heartstone glowing above us. His body is a furnace, his arms locked around me, his breath hot on my neck. I’m wrapped in his coat, my head resting on his chest, 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 didn’t have to do that,” I say, breaking the silence. “The healing. You could’ve let the High Priestess—”
“And let another woman touch you?” He brushes his thumb over my lower lip. “Never.”
“And if it had killed you?”
“Then I’d have died knowing you lived.”
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 stone, 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.
But I don’t let go.
Not this time.
Not ever.