The world came back in fragments.
First, sound—the low crackle of a fire, the distant drip of rain through cracked stone, the faint hum of warding runes pulsing beneath my skin. Then scent—damp earth, old blood, the sharp tang of vervain steeped in hot water. And then—
Pain.
It hit me like a blade to the spine, white-hot and searing, radiating from the core of my chest outward, down my arms, up my neck. My breath came in shallow gasps, my muscles twitching as if my bones were trying to escape my flesh. I tried to move, but my limbs wouldn’t obey. My fingers curled into fists, nails biting into my palms, but that was all.
I was trapped.
Not in chains. Not in stone.
In my own body.
And then I felt *him*.
Lysander.
Not through sight. Not through touch.
Through the bond.
It wasn’t just humming between us anymore.
It was *screaming*.
Like a live wire stretched too tight, like a storm about to break, like a starving thing clawing its way out of my chest. The Duskbane sigil on my wrist flared—hot, pulsing, *alive*—and I knew, with cold certainty, what this was.
Bond fever.
It had been building since the prison break—since he’d bitten me to free me, since he’d carried me through the night, since we’d kissed in the storm. The magic between us had been strained, stretched thin by lies, by war, by the weight of truth. And now—now it was demanding payment.
It wanted closeness.
It wanted contact.
It wanted *him*.
And I—
I wanted to fight it.
But my body didn’t listen.
“Cordelia.”
His voice cut through the haze like a blade—low, rough, *real*. I turned my head, my vision blurred at the edges, and there he was.
Lysander.
He knelt beside me, his crimson eyes burning, his coat discarded, his shirt torn at the shoulder—the wound from the ambush still a dark stain beneath the fabric. His hair was tousled, his jaw clenched, his fangs grazing his lower lip in concentration. One hand was pressed to my forehead, the other gripping my wrist, his thumb brushing the Duskbane sigil like he was trying to soothe it.
“You’re burning,” he said, his voice tight. “The bond’s rejecting the distance. It’s punishing you for fighting it.”
“I’m not… fighting,” I gasped, my voice raw. “I’m *resisting*.”
He didn’t flinch. Just leaned closer, his breath warm against my skin. “You’re lying. You’ve been resisting since the moment you touched the Contract Stone. And now it’s catching up.”
“Then let it,” I said, my teeth gritted. “Let it burn me to ash. I don’t care.”
“I do,” he said, his voice a growl. “Because if you die, the bond breaks. And if the bond breaks, I lose the only thing that makes me feel alive.”
My breath caught.
Not from pain.
From *recognition*.
Because he wasn’t just saying it.
He *meant* it.
And that terrified me more than the fever, more than the pain, more than the war.
“You don’t get to decide,” I whispered. “You don’t get to save me every time.”
“No,” he agreed. “But I get to try.”
And then—
He did the one thing I hadn’t expected.
He laid down beside me.
Not on top of me.
Not to dominate.
To *share*.
His body pressed against mine, warm and solid, his arm sliding beneath my shoulders, his hand cradling the back of my head. The bond flared—fire, need, *hunger*—and I didn’t pull away. Couldn’t. My body arched toward him, desperate, *starving*, my fingers clawing at his shirt, my breath coming fast.
“You feel it,” he said, his voice low, rough. “The pull. The need. It’s not just magic. It’s *us*.”
“It’s the bond,” I gasped. “It’s not real.”
“It’s *you*,” he said. “Your magic. Your body. Your *heart*. It knows what it wants. And so do I.”
“Then why stop?” I demanded, my voice breaking. “If you want me so damn much, why don’t you just take me?”
He didn’t answer.
Just held me tighter, his breath warm against my neck, his fangs grazing my pulse. “Because I won’t take you like this. Not when you’re weak. Not when you’re in pain. Not until you *choose* me.”
“And if I never do?”
“Then I’ll wait,” he said. “Until you burn. Until you break. Until you beg.”
My breath hitched.
And then—
The fever spiked.
It hit me like a wave—white-hot, suffocating, *inescapable*—and I screamed, my back arching off the bed, my fingers digging into his shoulders. My vision blurred, my magic flared, and for a moment, I wasn’t in the safe house.
I was in the sanctum.
The fire roared around me, the roof caving in, my mother’s body shielding Elara beneath the altar. And Lysander—
He was there.
Not as a monster.
As a man.
He stood in the shadows, his crimson eyes burning with grief, his voice raw as he whispered, *“I’m sorry.”*
And then—
Nyx appeared.
Her gown shimmered like frozen roses, her eyes like shards of ice. She held a vial—Elara’s blood—and smiled.
“Sign the order,” she said, “or she dies.”
Lysander didn’t hesitate.
He took the parchment. Signed it.
And as the fire surged, as my mother fell, as Elara screamed—I saw it.
Not betrayal.
Sacrifice.
And then—
The vision ended.
I gasped, collapsing back onto the bed, my body trembling, my breath coming fast. Lysander didn’t let go. Just held me, his hand stroking my hair, his voice low, steady, *grounding*.
“You saw it,” he said. “The truth.”
“I saw *you*,” I whispered. “Not the vampire lord. Not the killer. A man who loved his daughter enough to sign his soul away.”
He didn’t answer.
Just kissed my temple, his lips warm against my skin. “And you’re the only one who’s ever looked at me and seen that.”
My chest tightened.
Not from pain.
From *clarity*.
Because he was right.
I *had* seen it.
And I hadn’t just believed it.
I’d *felt* it.
And now—now the bond wasn’t just screaming.
It was *answering*.
---
The fever didn’t stop.
It ebbed and flowed like a tide—waves of pain crashing over me, pulling me under, only to recede long enough for me to catch my breath before dragging me back down. Lysander stayed beside me the entire time, his body a wall, his presence a storm. He didn’t leave. Didn’t sleep. Just held me, soothed me, fed me sips of vervain tea when I could swallow, wiped the sweat from my brow with a cool cloth.
And when the visions came—flashes of my mother, of Elara, of the fire, of the blood—I didn’t fight them.
I let them in.
Because they weren’t just memories.
They were *truths*.
And the bond—steady now, pulsing between us like a second heartbeat—was no longer a chain.
It was a bridge.
And I was crossing it.
“You’re getting stronger,” he said at one point, his voice low. “The fever’s breaking.”
“Or I’m just getting used to the pain,” I muttered, my eyes closed, my head resting against his chest.
He didn’t laugh. Just tightened his arm around me. “You don’t have to do that. You don’t have to pretend you’re not breaking.”
“And if I am?”
“Then I’ll hold you together,” he said. “Piece by piece.”
My breath caught.
And then—
I did it.
I reached for him.
Not to fight.
Not to push him away.
To *touch*.
My fingers brushed the tear in his shirt, the blood staining his side. “You’re hurt.”
“It’s nothing,” he said. “A scratch.”
“Liar,” I said, pushing the shirt aside. The wound was shallow, but it was still bleeding, dark blood seeping through the fabric. “Let me see it.”
He didn’t move. Just watched me, his crimson eyes burning. “You don’t have to.”
“I want to,” I said.
And then I did the one thing I’d sworn I’d never do.
I pulled his shirt up.
His body was a landscape of muscle and scar—old wounds, battle marks, the jagged line across his abdomen from a werewolf’s claw. But this—this was fresh. New. *Mine*.
“You took a blade for me,” I said, my voice breaking. “In the ambush. You didn’t have to.”
“No,” he agreed. “But I did.”
I reached for the salve, pouring it over the wound, my fingers trembling. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. Just stood there, his breath unsteady, his fangs grazing his lower lip.
And then—
My hand slipped.
Just a brush. Just a whisper of contact.
But it was enough.
The bond exploded—fire, need, *hunger*—and I didn’t pull back. Just kept going, my fingers tracing the scar across his abdomen, the curve of his hip, the edge of his trousers.
He didn’t stop me.
Just watched me, his crimson eyes dark with something I couldn’t name.
And then—
He caught my wrist.
Not to stop me.
To *guide* me.
His hand covered mine, his fingers interlacing with mine, his thumb brushing the pulse at my wrist. And then—he moved it.
Lower.
Deeper.
Until my palm rested over the hard ridge of his arousal, pressing through the fabric.
My breath caught.
“You want this,” he said, his voice a growl. “You’ve wanted it since the first time I touched you.”
“It’s the bond,” I whispered.
“No,” he said. “It’s *us*.”
And then—
He let go.
Just stepped back, leaving my hand where it was, his body still hard, his breath unsteady.
“Don’t,” I breathed.
“But you want me to,” he said. “And you know I’ll never stop.”
---
Later, as the fire burned low, as the storm raged beyond the windows, I found it.
Hidden in the inner seam of his coat—a vial of blood.
Old. Dried. Labeled in delicate script: *“For Power.”*
And beneath it, a name.
Seraphine.
My breath caught.
He’d lied.
Again.
But this time—
I wasn’t afraid.
Because the bond hummed between us, a live wire of magic and desire, and I knew, with cold certainty, that I wasn’t losing.
I was *winning*.
And if he thought I wouldn’t find the truth—
He didn’t know me at all.
But I knew him.
And I would spend every damn day proving I deserved it.