The fever returns with the moon.
It starts as a whisper beneath my skin—low, insistent, like a spell unraveling. I wake in the dead of night, drenched in sweat, my breath coming in ragged gasps. The room is dark, lit only by the fractured silver light bleeding through the arched windows. Outside, the Carpathian peaks loom under a blood-red moon, jagged and unforgiving. A lunar eclipse. The kind that stirs magic, awakens beasts, and cracks open old wounds.
And me?
I’m burning.
Not from illness. Not from fear.
From *him*.
The bond hums beneath my ribs like a second heartbeat, louder now, deeper. It’s not just a tether anymore—it’s a living thing, coiled around my spine, feeding on my pulse, my breath, my rage. Every nerve ending screams with his absence. I press a hand to my wrist, where the sigil glows faintly beneath my sleeve, and flinch at the heat radiating from my own skin.
Kael isn’t here.
He left hours ago, summoned by Torin to deal with a breach in the eastern wards. “I’ll be back before dawn,” he said, his voice calm, his storm-gray eyes unreadable. “Stay in the chambers. The storm will be worse tonight.”
I didn’t answer. Just watched him go, the door closing behind him like a tomb sealing shut.
And now—
Now I feel it.
The lunar storm is coming. I can taste it in the air—ozone and iron, the scent of magic unraveling. The Court’s ancient wards will hold, but the bond? It’s not built for distance. Not during a storm. Not when the moon calls to the Moonborn in my blood, when the witch’s magic in my veins strains toward the eclipse.
I drag myself from the bed, limbs heavy, and stumble to the washbasin. The water is ice-cold, 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.
The sigil flares—bright red, pulsing like a heartbeat. And beneath it, the fated mark: crescent moon, thorned vines. It’s not just reacting to the storm.
It’s *calling* to him.
I grip the edge of the basin, knuckles white. I won’t beg. I *can’t*. If I break now, if I send for him, if I let myself collapse into his arms like some desperate thing—then I lose. Not just the mission. Not just the war. But *me*.
I came here to destroy him.
Not fall apart without him.
A knock echoes through the chambers—sharp, urgent.
I don’t move.
Another knock. Louder this time.
Then the door opens.
It’s not Kael.
It’s the High Oracle.
She stands in the doorway, draped in midnight-blue robes, her milky eyes fixed on me. Her presence is like a blade in the dark—cold, precise, unyielding. Behind her, two vampire guards flank the entrance, their expressions blank, their hands on their weapons.
“The storm is upon us,” she says, voice low. “And the bond is unstable.”
“I’m fine,” I lie, straightening. My legs tremble. My vision blurs at the edges.
She steps forward, and I feel it—the weight of her magic, ancient and sharp. “You are not fine. The lunar energy amplifies the bond. Distance weakens it. And a weakening bond… threatens the treaty.”
“Then let it threaten,” I snap. “I don’t need him.”
“But the magic does,” she says. “And so do you.”
She raises a hand, and the guards move—fast, silent, efficient. One grabs my arm. The other produces a silver chain, etched with suppression runes.
“What the hell—”
“This is not punishment,” the Oracle says. “It is protection. For you. For him. For all of us.”
“I don’t need protection,” I hiss, wrenching my arm back. “I’m not a prisoner.”
“Not yet,” she says. “But if the bond fractures tonight, you will be. And so will he. The magic will tear you apart—slowly. Painfully. And the treaty will collapse. War will return.”
My breath catches.
“So you will be locked in the bonding chamber,” she says. “With him. Until the storm passes. It is the only way to stabilize the bond.”
“No,” I say, backing up. “I won’t—”
“You don’t have a choice,” she says. “The Council has decreed it. Refusal is treason.”
The guards close in.
I shift—fast, desperate. My claws slice through the air, my fangs bared. But the Oracle raises a hand, and a pulse of magic slams into me, freezing my limbs, locking my joints. I collapse to my knees, gasping, my wolf snarling beneath my skin.
“Don’t fight,” she says. “The chamber is warded. No harm will come to you. But the bond *must* be preserved.”
The guards haul me up, dragging me through the corridors. I don’t struggle. Can’t. The suppression magic holds me like iron. But my mind races.
Thirty days.
That’s how long we had to prove the alliance.
And now—
Now they’re locking us together.
Forced proximity. Forced intimacy. Forced *survival*.
And the worst part?
I don’t know if I’ll survive *myself*.
The bonding chamber is deep beneath the fortress, hidden behind layers of enchanted stone and blood-sealed doors. It’s small—just a single room, circular, with a low bed draped in black silk, a hearth burning with blue flame, and walls carved with ancient runes that pulse in time with the moon.
And in the center—
Kael.
He’s already here, standing by the hearth, his coat discarded, his sleeves rolled up. His storm-gray eyes lock onto mine the second I enter, and for a single, breathless second, I swear he *knows*—knows the way my body aches for him, knows the way my pulse quickens, knows the way my sigil *burns*.
“Let her go,” he says, voice low, dangerous.
The guards release me. The suppression magic fades, and I stumble forward, catching myself on the edge of the bed.
“The storm will peak in two hours,” the Oracle says. “The chamber is sealed. No one enters. No one leaves. You will remain here until dawn.”
“And if we refuse?” Kael asks.
“Then the bond weakens,” she says. “And you both die.”
She turns, the guards following. The door seals shut behind them with a final, echoing *thud*.
Silence.
Then—
“You shouldn’t have come,” I say, not looking at him. “You should’ve stayed away.”
“And let you die?” he asks, stepping closer. “Is that what you want?”
“I want to be free,” I snap. “I want to make my own choices. I don’t want to be *chained* to you by magic.”
“Then why does your body scream for me?” he asks, voice rough. “Why does your sigil burn when I’m near? Why does your breath hitch when I touch you?”
“Because it’s *manipulation*,” I say, backing up. “The bond. The magic. It’s not real.”
“Then why does it hurt when I’m not here?” he asks. “Why did you wake in pain? Why are you trembling right now?”
I don’t answer.
Because he’s right.
And that’s what terrifies me.
The storm hits.
It starts with a low rumble—deep beneath the mountain, like the growl of a waking beast. Then the runes on the walls flare, pulsing brighter, faster. The fire in the hearth surges, turning violet, then black. The air thickens, charged with magic, and I feel it—the pull, the *need*, the raw, jagged hunger clawing at my ribs.
“It’s starting,” Kael says, his voice tight. “The bond is reacting. The storm amplifies it.”
“Then stay away from me,” I gasp, pressing my back to the wall. “Don’t touch me.”
He doesn’t listen.
He crosses the room in three strides, his hands framing my face, his thumbs brushing my cheeks. “Look at me,” he says. “*Look at me*.”
I do.
And the world narrows to his eyes, to the storm in them, to the way his breath hitches when I meet his gaze.
“You’re burning,” he says. “Your pulse is racing. Your scent—storm and jasmine and something darker—”
“Stop,” I choke. “Just stop.”
“I can’t,” he says. “The bond won’t let me. And neither will I.”
He pulls me into his chest, his arms wrapping around me, his heartbeat syncing with mine. Fire surges through me—bright, molten, *alive*. His scent wraps around me—cold stone, old wine, something darker, deeper. Something that makes my body *ache*.
“You don’t get to do this,” I whisper, my hands fisting in his shirt. “You don’t get to touch me like you care.”
“I do care,” he says, voice raw. “More than you know. More than I should.”
“Then let me go,” I say, my voice breaking. “If you care, let me go.”
“I can’t,” he says. “Because if I do, you’ll die. And I’d rather burn with you than live without you.”
The storm roars.
The runes blaze.
And the bond *screams*.
I arch into him, my body betraying me, my breath coming in ragged gasps. His hands slide down my back, pulling me tighter, and I feel it—his arousal, low and dark, curling through the bond like smoke.
“You want me,” he murmurs against my ear. “You’ve always wanted me.”
“No,” I lie.
“Yes,” he says. “Your body doesn’t lie. Your sigil doesn’t lie. And the bond?” He presses his lips to my neck, just a whisper of contact, but my breath hitches, my knees weaken. “It remembers what you’ve forgotten.”
“I remember enough,” I say, shoving at his chest. “I remember the blade. I remember her blood. I remember *you*.”
“And I remember the boy who hid you in the trees,” he says, not letting go. “The one who told you to run. The one who *failed* to save her.”
My breath stops.
“I remember the girl who cut my arm with a child’s dagger,” he says, rolling up his sleeve. The scar is there—thin, silver, unmissable. “*‘If I die, you die too,’* you said. And I’ve lived by that vow every day since.”
“You let them call her a traitor,” I whisper.
“So they wouldn’t kill you,” he says. “And if I had to do it again, I would. A thousand times. A million.”
“You don’t get to decide for me,” I say, my voice breaking.
“I don’t,” he says. “But the magic does. And so does your body.”
He kisses me.
Not gently. Not sweetly.
Hard. Desperate. *Furious*.
His mouth crashes onto mine, his fangs grazing my lip, and I gasp, my hands flying to his hair, pulling him closer. Fire erupts between us—bright, molten, *alive*. His taste floods my mouth—cold wine and storm and something ancient, something *mine*. His hands slide under my shirt, his palms burning against my skin, and I arch into him, moaning into his mouth.
This isn’t revenge.
This isn’t hate.
This is *need*.
Raw. Unfiltered. *Unstoppable*.
He backs me against the wall, his body pinning mine, his thigh sliding between my legs. I grind against him, desperate, aching, my breath coming in ragged gasps. His hands are everywhere—my hair, my hips, my back—pulling, pressing, *claiming*.
“You’re mine,” he growls against my mouth. “You’ve always been mine.”
“No,” I say, but my voice wavers. “I hate you.”
“Then why,” he says, biting my lip hard enough to draw blood, “does your body scream my name?”
I don’t answer.
Can’t.
Because he’s right.
And the worst part?
I don’t want him to stop.
His fangs graze my neck, and I gasp, my fingers tightening in his hair. “Don’t,” I whisper. “Don’t mark me.”
“Then what do you want?” he asks, voice rough. “Tell me. *Beg* me.”
I don’t.
Just arch into him, my body answering for me.
And then—
I bite him.
Hard.
My fangs sink into his lip, drawing blood, and he groans, his hands tightening on my hips. The taste of him floods my mouth—iron and fire and something deeper, something *ours*—and for one terrible, beautiful second, I feel it: the bond, whole. Complete. *Alive*.
Then the world tilts.
My vision blurs.
My knees give out.
And I collapse into his arms.