THYME
The first thing I feel when I wake is absence.
Not pain. Not fear. Not even the usual hum of the bond, that low, steady thrum beneath my skin that’s become as familiar as my own heartbeat. Just… *emptiness*. A hollow ache in my chest, like something vital has been ripped out and left a raw, pulsing wound.
I open my eyes.
The room is dim, the fire in the hearth reduced to glowing embers. The furs are tangled around my legs, my shift twisted from last night’s fevered tangle of limbs and lips and whispered confessions. But the other side of the bed—Kaelen’s side—is empty. Cold. The imprint of his body is still there, the warmth lingering in the fabric, but he’s gone.
“Kaelen?” My voice is hoarse, barely a whisper.
No answer.
The bond remains silent. Not just quiet. *Dead*. Like a severed nerve. Like a snapped thread.
I push up on my elbows, my head swimming. The room tilts. My vision blurs. A wave of nausea rolls through me, sharp and sudden, and I press a hand to my stomach, fighting the urge to retch.
“No,” I mutter, forcing myself to breathe. “Not now. Not *this*.”
But it is.
It’s *bond-sickness*.
Elara warned me. *“If mates are apart too long, the body rebels. Fever. Hallucinations. Pain. And if the separation lasts more than seventy-two hours…”*
She didn’t finish. She didn’t have to.
I know what happens.
Death.
And if I die—
So does he.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, my bare feet hitting the cold stone. The moment I stand, the world spins. My knees buckle. I catch myself on the edge of the bed, my breath coming in short, desperate pulls. Sweat beads on my forehead, slick and cold. My skin feels too tight, too hot, like it’s burning from the inside out.
“Kaelen!” I call again, louder this time. “Where are you?”
Still nothing.
Not from the room. Not from the bond.
Just silence.
And then—
A whisper.
Not from the air. Not from the walls.
From *within*.
He’s not coming back.
My breath hitches.
Because it’s not Elara’s voice.
It’s *mine*.
Or something darker. Something cruel. Something that knows how fragile I am, how much I’ve given, how much I’ve *lost*.
“Shut up,” I snarl, pressing my hands to my temples. “He’s not gone. He wouldn’t leave me.”
Wouldn’t he? the voice taunts. He’s the Alpha. He’s spent his life controlling everything. And you—weak, hybrid, illegitimate you—think he’d choose you over power? Over duty? Over his own survival?
“He loves me,” I whisper, though the words feel thin, brittle.
Does he? The voice laughs, low and mocking. Or does he just want to own you? To possess you? To keep you as his little witch, his little prisoner, his little secret?
“No.” I push up from the bed, staggering toward the door. “He *sees* me. He *knows* me. And he wouldn’t—”
And then I see it.
The mirror.
And in it—
Not me.
A woman.
Dark hair. My eyes. My mouth.
My mother.
She’s standing behind me, her back to the wall, blood on her hands, her face twisted in agony. And then—
She turns.
Her eyes lock onto mine.
And she whispers—
Run.
I scream.
Not from fear.
From *recognition*.
Because it’s not a hallucination.
It’s a *memory*.
Of the last time I saw her. The last time I heard her voice. The last time she told me to *run*.
And I didn’t.
I stayed.
I watched.
And she died.
“No,” I gasp, stumbling back from the mirror. “No, no, no—”
But the vision doesn’t fade.
It *grows*.
The room shifts. The stone walls bleed into the memory—the cold stone of the prison, the iron bars, the smell of burning sigils, the scream that ended in silence. I’m not in the chambers anymore.
I’m in the past.
I’m ten years old.
And I’m watching her die.
“Mother!” I scream, falling to my knees. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry I didn’t run! I’m sorry I didn’t save you!”
But she doesn’t answer.
She just keeps whispering—
Run.
Run.
Run.
And then—
The door bursts open.
Light floods the room.
And he’s there.
Kaelen.
His silver eyes blaze, his fangs bared, his chest heaving. He takes one look at me—on my knees, trembling, drenched in sweat, my face streaked with tears—and he’s across the room in an instant.
“Thyme!” He drops to his knees in front of me, his hands on my shoulders, his voice rough with panic. “Look at me. *Look at me*.”
I try. I *want* to. But the vision is still there, overlapping with his face, his eyes, his hands. I see him—tall, powerful, the Wolf King—but I also see the man who stood by as my mother was flayed alive. The Alpha who let her die.
“You left me,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “You weren’t here. The bond—it’s gone. I thought—”
“I’m here,” he growls, pulling me into his arms. “I’m *here*. I didn’t leave. I was in the war room. I only stepped out for an hour. *An hour*.”
“It felt like days.”
“I know.” He holds me tighter, his face buried in my hair. “I felt it too. The moment I walked out, the bond… it *snapped*. I thought—”
He doesn’t finish.
But I know.
He thought I was dead.
And if I had been—
So would he.
“I saw her,” I whisper, clinging to him. “My mother. She was in the mirror. She told me to run.”
He stills. “What did she look like?”
“The same as I remember. Blood on her hands. Fear in her eyes. And she kept saying *run*.”
He exhales, slow and shaky. “That’s not a hallucination. That’s a *message*.”
“From who?”
“From her.” He pulls back, cupping my face. “Witches don’t just die, Thyme. Their magic lingers. Their spirits watch. And if she’s showing you that—”
“Then what?”
“Then she’s warning you.” His voice drops. “Someone’s coming. Someone dangerous. And she wants you to be ready.”
I stare at him. “You believe that?”
“I believe *you*,” he says. “And I believe in this bond. And I believe that if she’s showing you *run*, it’s because she knows you’re strong enough to *fight*.”
Tears burn my eyes.
Because he’s not just comforting me.
He’s *seeing* me.
Not the broken girl. Not the vengeful witch. Not the hybrid illegitimate. But the woman who’s fought her whole life to survive.
And he loves her.
“I don’t want to run,” I whisper. “Not anymore.”
“Then don’t.” He kisses my forehead. “Stay with me. Fight with me. *Live* with me.”
And I do.
I let him carry me back to the bed, his arms strong, his body warm, his scent wrapping around me like a shield. He lays me down gently, then strips off his shirt, his movements slow, deliberate, giving me time to adjust, to breathe, to *feel*.
“What are you doing?” I ask, my voice weak.
“Stabilizing the bond.” He lies down beside me, pulling me into his chest, his arm a heavy weight across my waist. “Skin to skin. Heart to heart. That’s what it needs.”
“But the fever—”
“Will pass.” He presses a kiss to my temple. “As long as I’m touching you. As long as you’re breathing with me. As long as we’re *together*.”
I close my eyes, pressing my face into his neck. His scent is overwhelming—pine, iron, wildness, *home*—and slowly, the hallucinations fade. The nausea eases. The fever breaks, sweat cooling on my skin.
And then—
The bond returns.
Not with a flare. Not with a scream.
With a *pulse*.
Soft. Steady. Like a heartbeat.
Like a vow.
“You’re back,” I whisper.
“Always,” he murmurs. “No matter what. No matter where. I’ll always come back to you.”
And I believe him.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of magic.
Because of the way his hand trembles as it strokes my hair. Because of the way his breath hitches when I press closer. Because of the way he whispers my name like it’s the only truth he knows.
“I love you,” I say, my voice barely audible.
He doesn’t answer with words.
Just pulls me tighter, his lips brushing my ear.
And in that silence, in that stillness, I know—
We’re not just surviving.
We’re *healing*.
—
The fever breaks by midday.
But the weakness lingers. My limbs feel heavy, my head cloudy, my magic sluggish. Kaelen doesn’t leave my side. He feeds me broth, wipes my brow, holds me when the tremors come. He doesn’t speak much. Doesn’t demand. Just *is*.
And it’s enough.
More than enough.
It’s *everything*.
But then—
The door opens.
Silas steps inside, his expression calm, unreadable. But his gaze flicks to us—Kaelen holding me, my head on his chest, his hand stroking my hair—and something shifts in his eyes. Not judgment. Not pity.
Respect.
“The Council requests your presence,” he says. “They’ve heard of the incident. They want to assess the bond.”
Kaelen tenses. “They’ll wait.”
“They won’t,” Silas says. “Veylan is already in the war room. Nyx is on her way. If you don’t appear, they’ll assume the bond is broken. That she’s a threat.”
I push up, my body still weak. “I’ll go.”
“No,” Kaelen says, his voice low. “You’re not ready.”
“I don’t have a choice.” I look at him. “If they think I’m a danger, they’ll separate us. And if they separate us—”
“Then we die,” he finishes, voice rough.
He exhales, long and slow. Then nods. “Then we go together.”
—
The war room is cold.
Not in temperature—though the stone walls leech the heat from my bones—but in *feel*. The air is thick with tension, the scent of vampire blood and Fae glamour sharp in my nose. Veylan lounges in the high-backed chair, his crimson robes trailing like blood, his fangs just visible in a smirk. Nyx sits beside him, her silver eyes sharp as glass, her presence a whisper of frost. Elder Maelis is absent—perhaps wisely.
“Ah,” Veylan drawls as we enter. “The bonded couple. How *touching*. I hear you nearly died this morning, little witch. Such a fragile thing. Such a *dangerous* bond.”
I don’t flinch. Don’t look away. “I’m alive. And the bond is strong.”
“Is it?” Nyx tilts her head. “Then let us see.”
She raises a hand.
A pulse of silver magic rips through the room, wrapping around us like chains. The bond *screams*—not in pain, but in *recognition*—and for a heartbeat, it flares, bright and undeniable, the twin marks on our skin glowing like twin moons.
“See?” Kaelen growls. “It’s real. It’s fated. And it’s *mine*.”
Veylan sneers. “Fated or not, it’s unstable. She nearly died. You nearly died. And if this happens again—”
“It won’t,” I say, stepping forward. “Because we won’t be separated. Not for an hour. Not for a minute. Not for a *second*.”
Nyx studies me. “And if the Council demands it?”
“Then the Council will have war,” Kaelen says, his voice a low growl. “Because if you take her from me, I’ll tear this court apart to get her back.”
Silence.
And then—
Nyx nods. “Then it’s decided. You will remain together. No exceptions. No separations. If the bond weakens again, you will both be confined to his chambers until it stabilizes.”
“Agreed,” I say.
“Good.” Nyx rises. “Then we have no further business here.”
They leave.
And I’m alone with him.
Again.
But not free.
Never free.
—
Back in the chambers, I collapse onto the bed, exhaustion dragging at my limbs. Kaelen shuts the door, then turns to me, his silver eyes searching mine.
“You were incredible,” he says.
“I was scared.”
“So was I.” He sits beside me, his hand covering mine. “But you stood up to them. You fought for us. And gods help me, Thyme—I’ve never been more proud.”
I look at him. “You don’t have to protect me.”
“I know.” He cups my face. “But I want to. Not because you’re weak. But because you’re *mine*. And I’ll burn the world to keep you safe.”
And I believe him.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of magic.
Because of the way his thumb brushes my cheek. Because of the way his voice breaks when he says my name. Because of the way he looks at me—like I’m the only truth he’s ever known.
“Then let me protect you too,” I whisper.
“How?”
“By making you choose.” I sit up, facing him. “By making you *willingly* break the Contract. Not for me. Not for the bond. But for *us*. For the future we could have.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just watches me, his eyes full of something dark and broken.
And then—
He pulls me into his arms.
“Not yet,” he murmurs. “But soon. I promise.”
And as he holds me, as the bond hums between us, as the world outside grows darker—
I know—
This isn’t just survival.
This is *love*.
And it’s worth every damn risk.
“We have thirty days,” I whisper. “Or we die.”
He kisses my forehead. “Then we’ll make every second count.”
And I know—
We will.