Mate Fever Spike
The silence of the Royal Wing was usually my enemy, but tonight, it felt like a mocking blanket wrapped around a burning coal. I lay in the massive bed, the silk sheets tangled around my legs, trying to find a position that didn't feel like fire against my skin.
It had started subtly after the Gavel Chamber victory. A simple cold sweat. But now, hours later, the sweat was gone, replaced by a deep, terrifying heat that radiated from the center of my chest. It felt like my very blood was boiling.
The Mate Bond.
I knew this was it. The price for being so close to him, the price for that grudging nod in the court, the price for staying under his roof. The bond, suppressed for so long by his iron will and my fear, was finally snapping, demanding to be recognized.
The need was not mental; it was purely, violently biological. It was a raw, aching hollow inside me, screaming for completion, screaming for the only thing in the entire world that could stop the fire: Demetrius.
I sat up, gasping, my body slick with fever. The scent of him—that fierce, clean scent of iron and cold pine, was everywhere. It felt like a beacon in the dark, pulling me like a drowning person toward a distant shore. I pressed my hands to my temples, trying to force the primal compulsion down. The shame was immense. I was the strong one, the survivor, the one who didn't surrender her will. Yet, here I was, reduced to a desperate, shaking mess by a simple biological imperative.
This is his rejection weapon. This is the cruelty he spoke of.
My silent fight failed. The heat was too intense. It felt like my bones were being roasted slowly. I pushed myself out of bed, stumbling on the thick rug. My bare feet barely made a sound on the marble floor. My mind screamed Stop! but my body ignored the command.
I was drawn to the hallway. I knew his private chambers were only fifty feet down the corridor, guarded by two of Rhys's newest, sternest guards. But the fever didn't care about guards or contracts or death threats. It only cared about relief.
I moved like a ghost, wrapped in a thin linen shift, shivering despite the heat. I reached the main door of my suite. I didn't knock. I didn't think. I just pulled the door open, exposing myself to the hallway.
The guards snapped to attention, their eyes wide with confusion and suspicion.
I barely registered them. My gaze was fixed on the massive door across the hall—his door.
Before I could take a single step, the door I was staring at opened slowly, deliberately.
Demetrius stepped into the hall.
He wasn't dressed in King clothes. He was wearing only dark, loose trousers, his powerful torso bare. He looked like carved granite, illuminated by the low wall sconces. He was tall, terrifying, and utterly magnetic.
But he was also soaked in sweat. His hair was plastered to his forehead, and his jaw was clenched so hard I could hear the subtle grinding of his teeth in the heavy silence. His eyes, usually cold, were burning with a desperate, wild fury.
He was fighting it too.
The moment our eyes met, the Mate Bond slammed into both of us. The distance between us—thirty feet of carpet and marble, became unbearable. My fever spiked so high I nearly fell.
"Well, well," Demetrius's voice cut through the agony, low and dangerously rough. He didn't move toward me. He didn't move at all. "Look at the feral creature. You finally succumbed to your lowly omega biology."
His words were cruel, but I heard the tremor beneath them, the sound of a man fighting a massive internal earthquake.
I leaned against the doorframe, trying to look steady. "It is not my biology alone, Your Majesty," I managed, my voice a dry, rattling whisper. "This is your rejection amplified. And it affects both of us, King. You are shaking."
I watched as his hand, resting against the doorframe, visibly clenched. He was fighting the irresistible pull.
"Silence," he hissed. "You have broken the contract by leaving your chambers. You are seeking physical comfort you have not earned."
"Physical comfort? Or physical necessity?" I countered, letting the raw, agonizing truth surface. "You are in pain. I can smell it, Demetrius. The bond is demanding that I relieve the agony you carry. And you are demanding the same."
He took one slow, measured step toward me. The single step made the heat between us flare, hot enough to melt stone.
"And if I am, Luna," he challenged, his voice laced with venom and desire. "What does your omega duty demand of you? To stand here, trembling and useless? Or to finally earn your title?"
He stopped, close enough now that his scent—that blessed, cool scent, was almost enough to make me weep with relief.
"You want relief?" he teased, the word cruel on his tongue. He was using his Lycan Alpha dominance, demanding my submission to the biological need. "It is a simple transaction. Step across the threshold. Surrender the struggle. Admit your need is greater than your defiance, and the pain will cease for both of us."
His challenge was clear: Give me your body, and I will give you peace. But you must ask first.
The fever was a tidal wave. My body screamed, Yes! Surrender! End the agony!
But my mind, battered and bruised by years of rejection, screamed back: No!
I pushed myself off the doorframe, taking a painful, defiant step toward him, closing the gap slightly. Now we were standing in the middle of the hall, two tormented souls caught in the same fire.
"You want me to beg," I choked out, fighting for control, fighting the urge to fall into his arms. "You want me to admit that without you, I am just a desperate animal, proving your point about my low-born nature."
I lifted my chin, tears of frustration and fever pooling in my eyes. "I will not trade my will for your momentary comfort, King. I will not surrender my soul for this lease you have given me. My body may burn, but my mind is still mine. And until you drop the knife, until you treat me as a mate and not a means, I will stand in this fire."
I pointed a shaking finger at his bare chest, right over the fierce, rhythmic thump of his heart. "You are just as tormented as I am. You sweat and clench and burn. You are here because you need this relief just as much, but you hide behind your crown. Coward."
The word hung between us, shocking in the quiet hall. The guards shifted nervously, but Demetrius didn't notice them.
His mask finally cracked. His eyes flashed with pure, devastating fury, but beneath it, I saw a flicker of raw, defeated pain. He hated that I had seen his weakness. He hated that I had called his bluff.
He took the final, crushing step toward me, and the Mate Bond exploded. It was no longer a gentle heat; it was an inferno. I cried out, finally losing the fight, reaching for his solid, life-giving body.
But before my hands could touch him, he seized my shoulders with brutal force, his fingers digging into my silk-covered skin.
"Then burn," he snarled, his voice a low, terrifying growl of absolute Alpha dominance. He used his full power, not to claim me, but to violently reject the bond.
The raw energy of his rejection slammed into me like a physical blow. The fire didn't cease, but it was suffocated, instantly crushed beneath his overwhelming will. I gasped, falling back against my doorframe as the dizzying wave of denial washed over me.
He let go instantly, recoiling as if my skin were poison. He took two steps back, regaining his distance and his Kingly control, his chest heaving with exertion.
"Get back in your cage, Luna," he commanded, his voice now cold, flat, and absolute. "Do not challenge the natural order again. The next time you seek me, I will assume you are seeking death."
He didn't wait for my response. He turned and slammed his door shut, the heavy wood vibrating with the force of his frustration.
I was left alone in the hall, breathing raggedly, my body shaking from the emotional shock and the physical pain of his second, violent rejection. The heat had subsided to a dull, aching throb, but the devastating knowledge remained: he needed me to live, and he was willing to kill us both to deny it.
I stumbled back into my room, collapsing onto the carpet. Tears streamed down my face, not from the fever, but from the realization of the cruelty of my fate. I was tied to a man who needed my body for life, but hated my soul for existing.
He's planning to die anyway, I realized, clutching the thin linen. If he plans to discard me, he must be planning his own end. And if he dies, Rhys wins.
The devastating rejection fueled a renewed sense of purpose. I had to expose Rhys, not just for my survival, but for the sake of the King who was too b
lind, too proud, and too afraid to save himself.