KIERAN'S POV:
I wake up burning.
Not the good kind of warm—the kind where you're cozy under blankets and don't want to get up.
This is the kind of burning where your skin feels too tight and your bones ache and your head pounds like someone's using it as a drum.
I try to open my eyes.
The light—even the dim candlelight—stabs into my skull like knives.
I make a sound. Not quite a word. Just... pain.
"Kieran?"
Ravion's voice.
Hands on my face—soothing.
"Open your eyes. Please. Let me see—"
I manage to crack one eye open.
Ravion's face swims into focus above me. He looks terrible. Dark circles under his eyes. Hair messy. Still wearing yesterday's clothes.
Has he slept?
"There you are," he breathes. Relief floods his expression. "You're awake. Thank the gods, you're awake."
"Feel like shit," I mumble. My voice sounds. Hoarse...
"I know. I know you do." His hand moves to my forehead. "You're burning up. The fever's been climbing since last night."
"Last night?" I try to sit up.
The world tilts.
Ravion catches me, gently pushes me back down. "Don't. You're too weak."
"What happened?" Everything's foggy. Blurry. "I remember the festival and running and—" It comes back in a rush. "You caught me."
His jaw tightens. "Yes."
"And then..."
"And then the bond broke." His voice is strained. "Not completely. But when you tried to leave, when you got so far away—the magic damaged itself trying to pull you back."
Oh no.
"The fever, the weakness—it's backlash," Ravion continues. "From fighting the bond. From trying to sever what can't be severed." His red eyes meet mine, and there's something raw in them. "You almost killed yourself, Kieran."
"I didn't—I just wanted—"
"I know what you wanted." He's not angry. He sounds broken. "I know you want to leave. Want to be free. But the bond won't let you. And when you fight it this hard—" His hand trembles slightly as he brushes hair back from my forehead. "This is what happens."
I'm crying. When did I start crying?
"I'm sorry," I whisper. "I'm sorry, I just—I couldn't—"
"Shh." He wipes my tears with his thumb. "Don't. Don't apologize. This isn't your fault."
"It is. I tried to run. I knew it would hurt but I—"
"But you were desperate enough to try anyway." He finishes quietly. "Because I made you that desperate."
We're both quiet for a moment.
My body aches. Everything hurts. The fever makes my skin feel like it's too tight, like I'm being cooked from the inside out.
"How long?" I ask.
"You've been unconscious for almost a full day." He reaches for a cloth, dips it in a basin of water beside the bed. Wrings it out. Places it on my forehead.
The cool feels amazing.
"A day?" I'm shocked. "You've been here—"
"The entire time." He dips the cloth again. "I'm not leaving."
"You're the king. You have—"
"Nothing is more important than this. Than you." He says it so simply. Like it's obvious. "The kingdom can wait."
I don't know what to say to that.
He continues his work. Cooling my face, my neck, my arms.
"Why?" The question slips out. "Why are you being nice to me?"
He pauses. Looks at me with those impossible red eyes.
"Because I care about you."
"You shouldn't."
"Too late." A small, sad smile. "I already do."
"I tried to leave you."
"I know."
"I said I hated you."
"You did." He dips the cloth again. "Do you still?"
I think about it.
The kidnapping. The forced marriage. The bond I never chose.
But also: the bath where he held me. The garden where he let me break. The festival where he made me laugh. The way he catches me every time I fall.
"I don't know," I admit. "I should. But..."
"But?"
"But you keep doing things that make it hard to hate you."
His smile grows. "Good."
"That's not good. That's confusing."
"Love usually is."
I freeze. "That's not—we're not—love?"
"Not yet." He says it so calmly. "But we're getting there."
"I don't want to love you."
"I know." He leans down, presses a kiss to my forehead. Gentle. Chaste. "But the bond is patient. And so am I."
Time passes in a blur of fever dreams and half-consciousness.
Ravion stays.
When I'm too weak to drink, he holds the cup to my lips. Tips water in slowly so I don't choke.
When the fever spikes and I'm shaking with chills, he climbs into bed and holds me. Lets me steal his coolness, his steady presence.
When I cry from pain and frustration and fear, he wipes my tears and tells me I'm going to be okay.
"I've got you," he murmurs into my hair. "I've got you. You're safe. I promise."
"Hurts," I whimper.
"I know. I'm so sorry. If I could take it from you I would." His arms tighten around me. "Just hold on. The fever will break soon."
"How do you know?"
"Because you're strong. Stronger than you think." He rocks me gently. "You survived falling through time. Survived forced marriage. Survived everything I've put you through. You'll survive this too."
"I don't feel strong."
"You don't have to. I'll be strong for both of us."
At some point—I don't know when—Elara appears with broth.
"The poor dear," she fusses. "He needs to eat!"
"He can barely stay conscious," Ravion says, but there's no bite in it.
"Then you feed him!" She thrusts the bowl into his hands. "Little bits. Slow. Make sure he swallows."
She leaves, still muttering about "stubborn boys" and "not eating enough."
Ravion looks at the bowl. Then at me.
"Think you can manage some?" he asks.
"Don't know."
"Let's try."
He helps me sit up—or tries to. I'm basically boneless. We settle for propping me against his chest, his arm around my waist holding me upright.
"Open," he says softly.
I part my lips.
He brings the spoon up carefully. Tilts it slowly so the broth slides into my mouth.
It's warm.
"Good?" he asks.
I nod weakly.
"One more."
We continue like that. Slow. Patient. Him feeding me like a child while I lean against him, too weak to be embarrassed.
"Why are you doing this?" I ask after the bowl is half empty.
"Doing what?"
"This. Taking care of me. You could have servants—"
"I don't want servants here." His voice is firm. "I want to do this myself."
"Why?"
"Because you're mine. Mine to protect. Mine to care for. Mine to—" He stops.
"Yours to what?"
"Mine to love," he finishes quietly. "If you'll let me."
The spoon freezes halfway to my mouth.
"I'm not asking for an answer now," he continues. "You're sick. Confused. Probably still angry at me. I just—" He sets the bowl aside. Adjusts me so I'm more comfortable against him. "I just need you to know. What you are to me. What you're becoming to me."
"I can't—I don't—" I'm crying again. Why do I keep crying?
"Shh. I know. I know it's complicated. I know you didn't choose this. But Kieran—" He tilts my face up gently so I have to look at him. "I would choose you. Every time. In every timeline. Bond or no bond. I would choose you."
"You don't know me."
"Then let me." His thumb brushes across my cheek. "Let me learn. Let me prove that this—" He gestures between us. "—can be more than just a bond. Can be something real."
"And if I never feel the same?"
Pain flashes across his face. But he says: "Then I'll accept it. I'll give you everything I can and ask for nothing back. Because that's what you do when you—" He stops himself.
"When you what?"
"When you love someone," he finishes. "You give without expecting return."
I'm too tired to process this. Too sick to figure out what I feel.
So I just burrow into his chest and let him hold me.
"Sleep," Ravion murmurs. "I'll be here when you wake."
"Promise?"
"Umm promise.."
The fever breaks during the night.
I wake up drenched in sweat but cool. The bone-deep ache is gone. My head is clear for the first time in days.
Ravion is still there.
Asleep in the chair beside the bed, head tilted at an uncomfortable angle, hand still holding mine.
He looks exhausted.
How long has he been awake? Taking care of me?
I squeeze his hand gently.
His eyes snap open immediately. "Kieran? How do you feel?"
"Better." My voice is still rough but stronger. "Fever broke."
Relief floods his face so completely it almost breaks me.
"Thank the gods." He presses my hand to his lips. Holds it there. "Thank the gods."
"You look terrible," I say, because I don't know how to handle the intensity in his expression.
He laughs—soft, broken. "I've been told."
"You should sleep. Real sleep. In an actual bed."
"I'm fine—"
"Ravion." I tug his hand. "Come here."
He hesitates.
"Please."
He climbs into bed beside me. Carefully, like I might break.
I turn into him. Rest my head on his chest. Feel his heartbeat under my ear—steady..
"Thank you," I whisper. "For taking care of me."
His arms come around me. "I'll always take care of you."
We fall asleep like that—tangled together, breathing in sync, the bond finally quiet and content between us.