I didn’t sleep.
Not that night. Not the next. Not for three days.
The fever started an hour after Kaelen left—first as a dull throb behind my eyes, then a slow, insidious heat spreading through my limbs. By dawn, it was a wildfire. My skin burned. My bones ached. My magic crackled beneath the surface like a storm about to break, threatening to tear through the fragile control I’d spent years building.
I tried to fight it. I drank cold water until my stomach cramped. I chanted binding spells, grounding myself in the old witch rhythms. I paced the room until my legs gave out, my bare feet slapping against the cold stone. Nothing worked. The bond pulsed inside me, relentless, demanding. It didn’t care about discipline. It didn’t care about revenge. It only knew one thing: *him.*
Kaelen.
His scent still clung to the air—pine and iron, something ancient and feral. I could feel him, not in the room, but in my blood, like a second heartbeat, steady and deep, pulling me toward him like gravity.
And I hated it.
I hated the way my body responded—the way my pulse jumped when I imagined his hands on me, the way my breath hitched when I remembered the way his thumb had brushed over my scar. I hated the weakness, the surrender, the way my thoughts kept circling back to the heat of his breath on my neck, the promise in his voice when he said, *“You’ll need your strength.”*
I wasn’t weak. I was a hunter. A survivor. I had buried my coven with my own hands. I had survived the witchfires, the bounty hunters, the years of running. I had not come this far to be undone by a man who thought he could claim me with a touch.
But the fever didn’t care about my pride.
By the third night, I was on my knees.
It happened in the hallway outside my chamber—cold marble beneath my palms, my vision swimming, my body trembling so hard I could hear my teeth chatter. I’d been trying to reach the library, to find something—anything—about the Twin Flame bond, a loophole, a way to break it. But the corridor stretched on forever, the torchlight blurring into streaks of red and gold. My legs buckled. I collapsed, gasping, my fingers clawing at the floor.
That’s when I felt him.
Not footsteps. Not a voice.
A *pull.*
Like a tether snapping taut, dragging me toward the east wing. Toward *him.*
“No,” I whispered, pressing my forehead to the stone. “Not now. Not like this.”
But my body didn’t listen. My magic surged, wild and uncontrolled, flaring in response to his proximity. The bond roared to life, a molten thread winding through my veins, tightening with every breath. I tried to crawl, to drag myself back to my room, but the world tilted. My vision darkened at the edges. The last thing I saw before I passed out was a pair of black boots stopping in front of me.
Then—nothing.
When I woke, I was in his bed.
Not mine. *His.*
Massive, carved from black oak, draped in heavy charcoal-gray linens. The air was thick with his scent—pine, iron, something dark and primal that made my pulse spike even through the haze of fever. The room was dim, lit only by a single hearth fire casting long shadows across the stone walls. Weapons lined the shelves—daggers, a broadsword, a whip coiled like a sleeping serpent. No portraits. No warmth. Just power. Control. Dominance.
And him.
Kaelen stood by the window, his back to me, silhouetted against the moonlight. He wore only a loose black shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle, a jagged scar running from wrist to elbow. His shoulders were broad, his stance unyielding. He didn’t turn when I stirred. Didn’t speak.
But I knew he was aware of me. I could feel it—the way the air shifted, the way his presence pressed against my skin like a physical weight.
“Where am I?” My voice was raw, barely above a whisper.
“My quarters,” he said, still not looking at me. “You collapsed in the hall. Riven found you. Brought you to me.”
“I didn’t ask to be brought here.”
“No,” he said, finally turning. His eyes caught the firelight, glowing like embers. “But you would have died if you’d stayed in that corridor. The fever’s too strong. You need touch. Proximity. *Me.*”
I tried to sit up, but my limbs were lead. The fever still burned, low and constant, but quieter now, as if my body had accepted the inevitable. “I don’t need you.”
He crossed the room in three strides, kneeling beside the bed. Up close, he was even more imposing—his jaw sharp, his lips hard, his gaze unrelenting. He reached for me, and I flinched.
“Don’t—”
His hand brushed my forehead, cool against my fevered skin. I gasped. Not from pain. From the *relief.*
It was like water after days in the desert. Like air after drowning. The heat in my blood eased, just slightly, just enough to think, to breathe. My body arched toward his touch without my permission.
“See?” he murmured, his thumb tracing my temple. “You don’t have a choice.”
I slapped his hand away. “Don’t touch me like you own me.”
“I don’t,” he said, voice low. “But the bond does.”
He stood, moving to the hearth, stoking the fire with a poker. “You’ve been out for six hours. The Council knows. They’ve already started whispering. ‘The witch-wolf is weak.’ ‘She can’t control her magic.’ ‘She’ll be dead by the week’s end.’”
My stomach twisted. *They’re watching. Waiting for me to fail.*
“Let them talk,” I said, forcing strength into my voice. “I don’t care what they think.”
“You should,” he said, turning back to me. “In this Court, perception is power. And right now, you look like prey.”
“I’m not prey.”
“No,” he agreed. “But you’re not a predator yet, either. Not while you’re fighting the bond instead of using it.”
I stared at him. “Using it? You think I should *use* this? This curse that ties me to you?”
“It’s not a curse,” he said, stepping closer. “It’s a weapon. And if you don’t learn to wield it, someone will use it against you.”
“Like you?”
“Like *everyone*,” he corrected. “The vampires. The fae. Lysara. They’ll smell your weakness. They’ll exploit it. And they’ll destroy you.”
I looked away, my jaw tight. He was right, and I hated that more than anything.
“So what do you suggest?” I asked bitterly. “That I just… surrender? Let you touch me whenever you want? Let you *claim* me?”
“No,” he said. “I suggest you survive. And that starts with accepting what you are.”
“And what am I?”
He stepped forward, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his body. His hand lifted, hovering near my face. “You’re mine. Whether you admit it or not.”
“I am *no one’s*,” I hissed.
But my body betrayed me. My breath hitched. My pulse jumped. The bond flared, responding to his nearness, to the deep, steady rhythm of his heartbeat.
He saw it. Of course he did. A slow, knowing smile touched his lips. “Liar.”
Then he turned and walked to the door. “Rest. The fever will return in another twelve hours. When it does, you’ll come to me. Not because I order it. Because your body will *demand* it.”
“I won’t,” I said, voice shaking. “I’d rather die.”
He paused at the threshold, looking back. “Then die. But know this—when you do, I’ll be the last thing you feel.”
And then he was gone.
I didn’t sleep that night, either.
But not because of the fever.
Because of the dream.
It started with his hands—large, calloused, warm—sliding up my waist, under my shirt. His breath on my neck. His voice, rough and low, whispering, *“You’re mine.”* I arched into him, moaning, my body on fire, my magic spiraling out of control. His fangs grazed my throat. His hips pressed against mine. I reached for him, desperate, aching—
And woke gasping, drenched in sweat, my heart pounding so hard I thought it would burst.
The room was dark. Silent. But I could still feel him—his scent on the sheets, his presence in the air, the bond humming beneath my skin like a live wire.
I pressed a hand to my chest, trying to steady my breathing. My fingers trembled. My thighs clenched. I was soaked—not with sweat alone.
And I hated myself for it.
I had come here to kill a vampire.
Not dream about being claimed by a wolf.
But the dream clung to me, vivid and shameful. I could still feel the weight of his hands, the heat of his body, the way my traitorous skin had burned for his touch.
I got up, moving to the washbasin, splashing cold water on my face. I stripped off my damp nightgown, scrubbing my skin until it was raw, trying to erase the memory of his hands, the phantom pressure of his mouth on my neck.
It didn’t work.
The bond pulsed, steady and insistent, a reminder that no matter how much I fought, my body knew the truth.
I wanted him.
And that was the most dangerous thought of all.
When the fever returned, I didn’t fight it.
I walked to his chambers. Not because I wanted to. Not because I had given in.
Because I couldn’t breathe.
The pain was worse this time—sharp, stabbing pulses in my skull, my spine, my chest. My vision blurred. My legs trembled. I barely made it to his door before I collapsed against it, pounding weakly with my fist.
It opened instantly.
He was already dressed, waiting. As if he’d known.
“You’re late,” he said, catching me before I fell.
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. My body was on fire, every nerve screaming for relief. He lifted me effortlessly, carrying me into the room, laying me on the bed.
“Look at me,” he commanded.
I forced my eyes open. His face was close, his gaze intense. “The bond needs touch. Skin to skin. Can you handle that?”
I nodded, teeth clenched.
He didn’t hesitate. He pulled off my shirt, then his own, baring his chest—broad, scarred, powerful. Then he pulled me against him, my bare skin to his, our hearts pounding in time.
The relief was instant.
Like ice water poured over flame. The pain receded. The fever broke. My magic settled, humming softly beneath my skin, no longer wild, but *aligned.*
And then—something worse.
Desire.
It hit me like a physical blow—hot, urgent, undeniable. His breath was warm on my neck. His hands were on my back, pressing me closer. His heartbeat was steady, strong, *mine.*
I turned my head, my lips brushing his throat. I felt him freeze. Felt the way his breath caught. Felt the way his grip tightened.
“Sage,” he warned, voice rough.
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. My body moved on its own, arching into his touch, my leg sliding between his, my hips grinding against his hard length.
He growled—low, dangerous—and flipped me onto my back, pinning me beneath him. His eyes burned into mine, feral, possessive.
“You don’t want this,” he said, voice strained. “Not like this.”
“Yes,” I gasped. “I do.”
He hesitated—just a second—then pulled away, rolling off me, sitting at the edge of the bed, his back to me, breathing hard.
“No,” he said. “Not until you mean it.”
I lay there, trembling, my body aching, my pride shattered.
He had rejected me.
Not because he didn’t want me.
But because he wanted me to *choose* him.
And that—more than the fever, more than the bond, more than the dream—was the most dangerous thing of all.
Because I wasn’t sure I wouldn’t.