IRIS
The silence that followed Kaelen’s abrupt departure was heavier than any shout. The fire in the hearth crackled, a cheerful, mocking sound in the suffocating quiet of the dining hall. My dinner, the roasted fowl and root vegetables, grew cold on the plate. The wine in my glass, once a welcome distraction, now seemed cloying and sour. His last words echoed in my mind, not as a command, but as a chilling premonition. *A patrol went silent near the Crimson Pass.* The Crimson Pass was a notoriously treacherous gorge, a place where magic was said to be thin and wild, where the veil between worlds was threadbare. It was a perfect place for an ambush.
I sat there for a long time, the untouched meal a testament to my shattered appetite. The verbal duel we had waged, the raw, unexpected intimacy of his confession, the ghost of his kiss—all of it swirled in my mind, a chaotic storm of emotion and confusion. He was a tyrant, a captor, a man who saw me as a weapon. But he was also a man who had admitted the thought of me dead was “an unacceptable outcome.” The contradiction was a maddening, irresistible puzzle, and I was terrified that I was starting to want to solve it.
Finally, I pushed myself away from the table, my movements stiff. I wandered back to the chambers, the vast, empty space feeling more like a cage than ever. The heavy black cloak, the symbol of my forced station, was draped over a chair, a dark, accusing shape. I ignored it, pacing the length of the room like the caged animal I was. The bond was a low, steady hum in my chest, a constant reminder of his presence, but I couldn’t feel his specific emotions anymore. He had shut me out. He was the Alpha King, the commander, and I was just the bond-mate he had locked away for safekeeping. The dismissal stung more than I cared to admit.
Hours bled into one another. The fire in the hearth died down to glowing embers. The moon rose, its silver light slanting through the balcony doors, painting the stone floor in stripes of black and white. I tried to read, to lose myself in the dry, academic text of magical theory I’d found in a small bookshelf, but the words were meaningless shapes on a page. All I could think about was the silent patrol, the danger in the Crimson Pass. And Kaelen, out there in the dark, leading his men.
A strange lethargy began to creep over me. It wasn’t just exhaustion from the day’s training and emotional turmoil. It was a deep, penetrating weariness that settled into my very bones. My head started to ache, a dull, persistent throb behind my eyes. I rubbed my temples, thinking it was just stress, a migraine brought on by my impossible situation.
But then, the pain sharpened. It was a spike of ice, a sudden, blinding agony that made me gasp and drop the book. It felt like a part of my soul was being torn away. At the same instant, the bond in my chest screamed. It wasn’t a hum or a thrum; it was a klaxon of pure, unadulterated agony. I doubled over, clutching my chest, my breath catching in a ragged, pained sob.
It was his pain. I knew it with a certainty that was as instinctive as breathing. Something had happened. Something terrible. He was hurt. Or worse.
*Kaelen.* The name was a silent, desperate scream in my mind. I stumbled toward the door, my only thought to get to him, to see what was wrong. My hand closed around the heavy iron handle, and I pulled.
The door wouldn’t budge. It was as if it had been welded into the stone frame. I yanked again, putting all my weight into it, my shoulder screaming in protest. Nothing. It was sealed, not by a lock, but by magic. A powerful, ancient magic that felt cold and absolute. The Restorative Bond. It was enforcing its own cruel terms. He had ordered me to stay in the room, and the magic of our very souls was ensuring his command was obeyed.
Panic, cold and sharp, lanced through me, momentarily overriding the pain. I was trapped. I was locked in a gilded cage while he was out there, possibly dying. I slammed my palms against the door, a futile, desperate act. "Let me out!" I screamed, the sound swallowed by the thick stone. "Kaelen!"
As if in response to my cry, a new wave of agony washed over me, so intense it brought me to my knees. It was a physical assault, a fire that seared through my veins, followed by a bone-deep chill that made my teeth chatter. The bond wasn’t just a conduit for his pain; it was a punishment for my defiance. For trying to get to him.
Fever. It was the only word for it. A heat so intense it felt like my blood was boiling. My skin was flushed and clammy, my clothes sticking to me, suffocating. I crawled away from the door, my vision swimming. I needed water. I needed to cool down. I made it to the small table by the bed, my hand knocking over the water pitcher. It shattered on the floor, the water spreading in a dark stain. I stared at it, my mind a foggy, feverish mess. I couldn’t think. I could only feel. The pain. The heat. The terrifying, empty void where his presence should have been a steady, reassuring weight.
I collapsed onto the floor, the rough stone a shock against my burning cheek. I was shivering violently, even though I felt like I was burning alive. This was the consequence he had warned me about. Bond Sickness. The magical backlash that felt like your soul was being torn from your body. He had been right. It was a physical law, as absolute as gravity. And we were breaking it.
The door to the chambers flew open with such force it slammed against the wall, the sound like a thunderclap in my feverish haze. I tried to lift my head, to see who was there, but my neck felt like it was made of lead. A pair of strong, familiar hands grabbed me, rolling me onto my back.
It was Kaelen.
He was covered in dirt and blood. A deep, nasty gash ran along his jaw, and his leathers were torn in several places, revealing dark, bloody bruises beneath. He was breathing heavily, his chest heaving, his silver eyes wide with a mixture of fury and a raw, undisguised fear. But he was alive. He was here.
"What in seven hells have you done?" he growled, his voice a rough, frantic rasp. He pressed a hand to my forehead, and the contact was both a shock and a balm. "You're burning up."
"You… you were gone," I managed to choke out, my throat parched. "The pain… I felt…"
"The bond," he bit out, his gaze raking over my trembling body. "You tried to leave the room. You defied my order." He looked down at me, a complex storm of emotions warring in his eyes—anger at my defiance, fear for my safety, and a deep, possessive frustration. "You stupid, stubborn, infuriating woman! Do you have any idea what you've done to us?"
He scooped me up into his arms as if I weighed nothing. The movement sent a dizzying wave of nausea through me, and I cried out, burying my face in the crook of his neck. His scent—pine, midnight rain, and now, the coppery tang of his own blood—was an overwhelming, intoxicating drug. It was the scent of life, of safety, of the man who was my tormentor and my only anchor in this storm.
He carried me not to the bed, but to the plush furs in front of the dying fire. He laid me down gently, his movements surprisingly careful for a man so filled with rage. The proximity was agonizing. The heat radiating from his body was a furnace, but it was a welcome heat, a heat that pushed back against the fever burning in my own blood. The bond, which had been a screaming void of pain, now hummed with a low, steady thrum of relief. We were close. We were safe.
"We have to break the fever," he said, his voice a low, urgent growl. He knelt beside me, his hands hovering over my body, unsure where to touch. "The magic won't let us be apart. But this… this is a rejection. Your body is rejecting the bond, and mine is rejecting your pain."
"Make it stop," I whispered, a tear of pure desperation finally escaping and tracing a path through the grime on my cheek. "Please, Kaelen. Make it stop."
The plea seemed to shatter something in him. His control, his anger, it all fractured, leaving behind a raw, primal need to fix this, to fix me. "Your clothes," he rasped. "They're making it worse."
His hands went to the hem of my tunic. I knew I should stop him. I should fight, to push him away. But I was too weak, too lost in the fever and the pain. And a dark, shameful part of me didn't want to fight. A part of me craved his touch, craved the relief I knew only he could provide.
He peeled the damp, sweat-soaked tunic from my body, his knuckles brushing against the sensitive skin of my stomach. A shiver, entirely unrelated to the fever, traced its way up my spine. His gaze was intense, focused, but it wasn't the look of a predator. It was the look of a man trying to solve a complex, life-threatening problem.
The cool air was a shock against my overheated skin, but it was a fleeting relief. The fever was a beast inside me, raging and unconquerable. "It's not working," I choked out, my body trembling with a new wave of chills.
"I know," he growled, his voice thick with a frustration that was almost a pain in itself. He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then his hands went to the laces of my leather trousers. "I have to cool your skin. All of it. Don't fight me on this, Iris. Please."
The please was my undoing. It was a crack in his armor, a glimpse of the desperate man behind the tyrant king. I didn't resist as he stripped the trousers from my legs, leaving me in only my thin, cotton smallclothes. I was exposed, vulnerable, but the fever had burned away all my pretenses, all my defenses. I was just a body in agony, and he was my only hope of relief.
He knelt over me, his body a cage of heat and strength that blocked out the rest of the world. His hands, which had been hesitant before, now moved with a new, desperate purpose. He wasn't trying to be gentle. He was trying to be effective. His palms, rough and calloused, brushed against my skin, his touch a shock of cool against my feverish flesh. He ran his hands over my arms, my shoulders, my stomach, his touch a frantic, desperate attempt to soothe the raging fire within me.
And it was working. The fever receded, just a little, with every pass of his hands. The bond hummed louder, a harmonious chord that soothed the screaming discord of the sickness. But his touch was also a spark on kindling. The primal, needy part of me, the part that had been awakened by his bite and fueled by our training, responded with a vengeance. The heat of the fever was replaced by a different kind of heat, a deep, throbbing ache that settled low in my belly.
His hands stilled on my hips, his thumbs brushing against the sensitive skin just above the waistband of my smallclothes. I felt him freeze, felt the sharp intake of his breath. He felt it too. The shift from agony to desire. The air between us, which had been thick with the scent of sickness and desperation, was now thick with something else. Something infinitely more dangerous.
His gaze met mine, and the raw, undisguised need in his silver eyes stole my breath. The fever had stripped us both bare, leaving nothing but the raw, primal connection of the bond. He was no longer the king, and I was no longer the captive. We were just a man and a woman, a Lycan and a witch, drawn together by a force that was as old as time, a force that was demanding to be sated.
"Iris," he growled, my name a rough, desperate prayer on his lips.
His head lowered. I knew what was coming. I knew I should stop it. This wasn't real. It was the fever, the sickness, the magic manipulating us, forcing us together. But as his lips descended toward mine, all I could think was that I wanted it. I wanted him. I wanted the relief, the connection, the oblivion only he could provide.
His lips were just a breath from mine when he stopped, his entire body going rigid. A low, guttural sound tore from his throat, a sound of pure, agonized frustration. He pulled back, his jaw clenched, his eyes squeezed shut as if in physical pain.
"No," he snarled, the word a raw, self-loathing curse. "Not like this. Not when you can't… when it's not…"
He pushed himself away from me, scrambling to his feet as if I were a fire. He stood there, looking down at me, his chest heaving, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. His body was a taut bowstring of need and denial. The rejection was a cold, brutal slap, a wave of shame so profound it was almost as painful as the fever had been.
He turned his back on me, his shoulders rigid with a tension that was almost violent. "Get dressed," he bit out, his voice rough and raw. "Get in the bed. The fever will break now that we're close. It won't come back tonight."
He strode to the heavy oak door, yanking it open and disappearing into the corridor, leaving me lying on the furs, half-naked, trembling, and more confused than I had ever been in my life. The fever was indeed receding, the pain in my body fading into a dull, exhausted ache. But a new pain had taken its place. The sharp, aching void of his rejection.
I curled into a ball on the furs, pulling the thick wool over my naked, trembling body. The scent of him was everywhere, on the furs, on my skin. The bond was a quiet, steady hum, a soothing balm on my frayed nerves. But the memory of his hands on my skin, of his lips a breath from mine, of his raw, agonized rejection, was a fire that would not be so easily extinguished. The line between hatred and desire, between pain and relief, had been irrevocably, terrifyingly blurred. And I had no idea which side of that line I would find myself on when the sun rose.