The fever starts at dawn.
It begins as a whisper beneath my skin—low, insistent, like a forgotten spell stirring in the dark. I wake tangled in the silk sheets, drenched in sweat, my pulse hammering as if I’ve run miles in my sleep. The room is cold, but my blood burns. My breath comes in shallow gasps, and every nerve ending feels raw, exposed. I press a hand to my wrist, where the sigil still glows faintly, and flinch at the heat radiating from my own skin.
The bond.
It’s not just a tether. It’s a parasite, feeding on my strength, my will, my rage. And it’s growing stronger.
I drag myself from the bed, limbs heavy, and stumble to the washbasin. The water is icy, and I splash it over my face, gasping at the shock. My reflection in the silvered glass is a stranger—pale, hollow-eyed, lips parted as if I’ve been screaming. Dark circles bruise the skin beneath my eyes. My hair clings to my temples in damp strands. I look like someone dying.
Maybe I am.
Kael said distance would weaken us. I didn’t believe him. I thought it was another threat, another way to control me. But now—now I feel it. A deep, gnawing ache in my bones. A hollow in my chest where his presence should be. The bond isn’t just magic. It’s *alive*. And it’s starving.
I grip the edge of the basin, knuckles white. I won’t go to him. I *can’t*. If I walk into that outer chamber and find him waiting, calm and composed in his perfect black attire, his storm-gray eyes unreadable, I’ll lose the last shred of my resolve. I’ll beg. I’ll break.
And then what?
Will I forget why I came here? Will I let him rewrite history until I believe his lies? Will I let myself believe that he *saved* me?
No.
I came to expose him. To reclaim my mother’s throne. To burn his empire to ash.
And I will.
Even if it kills me.
I force myself to dress—black trousers, a high-collared tunic, my silver mask tucked into my pocket. I won’t wear it today. Not in front of the Council. Let them see my face. Let them see the hybrid they tried to erase.
I open the bedroom door slowly, bracing for the rush of sensation.
He’s standing by the hearth, back to me, pouring blood from a crystal decanter into a silver goblet. Not human blood—synthetic, the pale red substitute vampires use to survive. But even that looks like life in his hands. He’s dressed in dark charcoal today, his coat tailored to perfection, every line of him sharp, controlled, *untouchable*.
He doesn’t turn.
“You’re burning,” he says. “Your scent changed. Sour with fever.”
“I’m fine,” I lie.
He finally turns, and his eyes—gods, his eyes—pierce through me. Not with hunger. Not with triumph. With something worse.
Pity.
“You’re not fine,” he says. “You’re weakening. In another day, you’ll hallucinate. In two, you’ll collapse. The bond doesn’t negotiate, Jasmine. It *demands*.”
“Then let it demand,” I snap, gripping the doorframe to steady myself. “I won’t give in.”
“You won’t have a choice.”
“I always have a choice.”
He takes a slow step toward me. “Do you? You chose to come here. You chose to touch me. You chose to *feel* what we are. The rest is just delay.”
“I didn’t choose *any* of this!”
“No,” he says, voice low. “But you *felt* it. And that’s the same thing.”
I want to scream. I want to shift and tear the room apart. But my legs tremble, and my vision blurs at the edges. I lean against the wall, pressing my palm to the cold stone.
“Why are you doing this?” I whisper. “Why keep me here? If you really wanted to protect me, you’d let me go. You’d let me die on my own terms.”
He’s close now. Too close. I can feel the heat of him, the slow, steady pulse in his throat. His scent wraps around me—cold stone, old wine, something darker, deeper. Something that makes my body *ache*.
“Because I can’t,” he says. “The bond won’t let me. And neither will I.”
“You don’t get to decide for me.”
“I don’t,” he says. “But the magic does. And so does your body.”
He reaches out, slow, deliberate, and brushes a strand of hair from my forehead.
Fire.
Electricity.
I gasp, stumbling back, but the wave of sensation follows me—his touch, his warmth, his *need* flooding into me like a tide. My knees buckle. I catch myself on the edge of the bed, breathing hard.
“Stop,” I choke. “Just… stop.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t apologize. Just watches me with those endless eyes. “You’ll have to get used to it. The Council convenes in an hour. They’ll vote on our alliance. And if we refuse…”
“Then what?” I snap. “War?”
“Worse,” he says. “Collapse. The treaty fails. The Veil thins. Humans begin to see. And the Tribunal moves in to exterminate every hybrid they can find.”
My breath catches.
“You’re lying,” I whisper.
“Check the sigil,” he says. “It knows when I lie.”
I roll up my sleeve.
The sigil glows—steady, unbroken. No flicker. No flare.
He’s telling the truth.
“You’d sacrifice peace,” he says, “to keep from being near me? To keep from *feeling* me? You’d let thousands die—hybrids, witches, werewolves—just to prove you don’t need me?”
“I don’t,” I say, but my voice wavers.
“Then prove it,” he says. “Walk out of this room. Leave the Court. Go back to the shadows where you’ve been hiding. And see how far you get before the fever takes you.”
I glare at him, but my hands tremble. My vision swims. The bond hums in my blood, a constant, insistent pull. I can feel him—his presence, his strength, his *life*—like a missing limb suddenly remembered.
I hate him.
I hate this.
But I can’t leave.
Not yet.
“Fine,” I say, straightening. “I’ll go to the Council. I’ll play your game. But don’t think this means I trust you. Don’t think this means I *believe* you.”
“I don’t need you to believe me,” he says. “I just need you to survive.”
He turns, picking up his coat. “Come, Jasmine. Our fate awaits.”
I follow.
Not because I want to.
But because my body *demands* it.
The Council chamber is a cavern of shadows and firelight, carved deep into the mountain. Arched ceilings loom above, lined with torches that burn with blue flame. The air is thick with power—old magic, ancient grudges, the weight of centuries of blood and betrayal. Twelve thrones circle the central dais, each representing a ruling house of the supernatural world. Vampires. Werewolves. Witches. Fae. All watching. All waiting.
Kael takes his seat at the head of the circle—black throne, thorned arms, eyes like storm clouds. I stand beside him, unseated, uninvited. A hybrid. An anomaly. A threat.
The High Oracle rises, her milky eyes fixed on me. “The bond has awakened,” she intones. “The lost heir of the Shadow Coven and the Moonborn Clan has returned. And she is bound to the Midnight King by fated magic.”
Whispers ripple through the chamber. *Hybrid. Heir. Betrayal.*
“The treaty cannot proceed,” says Elder Voss, a vampire with silver-streaked hair and a voice like cracked ice. “Not with such instability at its core. The bond is unpredictable. Dangerous. It could fracture the alliance before it begins.”
“Or strengthen it,” counters Alaric, the Moonborn Alpha, a broad-shouldered werewolf with eyes like molten gold. “Fated bonds are rare. Sacred. If the magic has chosen them, perhaps it is for a reason.”
“A reason to destabilize our power,” snaps Matron Niamh, head of the Northern Witches. “She is half-blood. Untrained. Unproven. And he—” She gestures at Kael. “—is the one who declared her mother a traitor. How do we know this isn’t a ploy? A way to consolidate power under a false heir?”
“The sigil does not lie,” the Oracle says. “Nor does the mark. The bond is real. And it *will* be honored.”
“Then we bind them,” says Lord Malrik, a vampire elder with eyes like frozen steel. He’s seated in the shadows, his presence like a knife in the dark. I’ve seen him before—in records, in whispers. A hardliner. A purist. He wants hybrids eradicated. And he *hates* me.
“Bind them how?” I demand.
“By oath,” Malrik says, a slow smile spreading across his face. “A thirty-day alliance. Bound by blood, witnessed by the Council. They will share duties, quarters, and—” He pauses, savoring the word. “—*beds*. If, at the end of thirty days, the bond remains unbroken and the treaty is ratified, the alliance stands. If not…”
“Then what?” Kael asks, voice dangerously calm.
“Then the bond is severed,” Malrik says. “By force. And the consequences… will be fatal.”
Silence.
My breath catches. Severed. By force. That means magic ripped from the soul. A slow, agonizing death.
Kael doesn’t flinch. “And if we refuse?”
“Then the treaty fails,” Malrik says. “War returns. The Tribunal moves in. And every hybrid in Europe is marked for execution.”
I look at Kael. His expression is unreadable. But I feel him—his pulse, his tension, his *fear*—echoing in my blood.
Thirty days.
Thirty days of proximity. Of touch. Of *this*.
And if I survive… I’ll have access. To records. To allies. To the truth.
I can use this.
I *have* to use this.
“I accept,” I say, stepping forward.
Every head turns.
“You accept?” Malrik asks, eyebrow raised.
“I accept the alliance,” I say, voice steady. “But not because I trust him. Not because I believe in this bond. But because I won’t let *you* decide my fate.”
Malrik smiles. “Brave words. Let’s see if you still feel that way in thirty days.”
The Oracle raises her hands. “The oath will be sealed in blood. Step forward.”
Kael and I move to the center of the dais. A silver blade rests on a stone pedestal, its edge gleaming under the torchlight. The Oracle takes it, slicing first Kael’s palm, then mine. Blood wells—dark crimson for him, deeper red for me, laced with the faintest silver shimmer of my Moonborn blood.
Our hands are joined.
And the world *explodes*.
Fire surges through me, brighter, hotter than before. His blood mingles with mine, and I *taste* him—cold wine and storm and something ancient, something *mine*. His pulse thrums in my veins. His breath syncs with mine. And beneath it all, a single, devastating truth: I am not alone.
I never was.
He looks at me, and for the first time, I see it—*recognition*. Not just in his eyes. In his soul.
“You feel it,” he murmurs.
“I feel *nothing*,” I lie.
But my body betrays me. My fingers tighten around his. My breath hitches. And the sigil beneath my sleeve—glowing so brightly it burns—proves I’m lying to myself.
The Oracle chants. The blood on our palms swirls, merging into a single thread of light that wraps around our wrists like a living chain. The bond deepens. The fever recedes—just slightly. Just enough.
“The oath is sealed,” she declares. “For thirty days, they are bound. May the magic judge them worthy—or destroy them.”
The Council murmurs approval. Malrik smiles. Alaric nods. Niamh watches me with narrowed eyes.
Kael turns to me, his voice low, meant only for me. “You think you can use this. Play the long game. Gather your evidence. Destroy me.”
“I know I can,” I say.
“Then do it,” he says. “But know this—every day you stay, every touch you allow, every breath you share with me… you’re not just gathering proof.”
“What am I doing?”
He leans in, his lips grazing my ear. “You’re falling in love with me.”
I jerk back. “I *hate* you.”
“Then why,” he says, lifting our still-joined hands, “does your blood sing when I touch you?”
I yank my hand away, but the chain of light remains, pulsing between us.
“I will destroy you,” I whisper.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t smile. Just watches me with those endless eyes.
“Then you’ll die with me,” he says. “The bond won’t let us live apart.”
The chamber empties. The torches dim. And I stand there, trembling, the weight of thirty days pressing down on me like a tomb.
I came here to burn his empire to the ground.
But the truth—sharp and terrible—is this:
I’m not the one holding the match.
The fire was already lit.
And it’s inside me.