Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Makim didn’t hold back. “Are you really so foolish? I repeat, this is because the bond has not been completed.”
Nero blinked. “But—
"When the bonding begins but remains unconsummated, the body attempts to force completion," Makim explained, his voice clinical yet tinged with urgency. "His wolf is asserting dominance, demanding the bond be sealed."
"That's ridiculous," Nero protested, even as he watched Casteel's body tremble again. "He was fine less than a bell ago."
"The first touch triggered the process. The mark on your neck—" Makim gestured toward Nero's nape, "—is the physical manifestation of an ancient magic awakening. His body is responding to that call."
Nero ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "So what, we're supposed to just...fuck each other against our will?
Nero turned away, his mind racing. Maya's face flashed before him—her smile, her warmth, the way she'd whispered his name in their final moments together. The thought of being with anyone else felt like betrayal, yet watching Casteel suffer tore at something deep inside him.
"There must be another way," he insisted. "Some herb or potion—"
"If there was, don't you think I would have administered it already?
" Makim snapped, his patience wearing thin.
He reached into his robes and withdrew a small vial of amber liquid.
"This will ease his pain temporarily, but it cannot halt the progression.
The fever will return, stronger each time, until. .."
He didn't need to finish the sentence. Nero understood the implication all too well.
Makim's weathered face softened with unexpected compassion. "I understand your reluctance. But understand this: if the bond remains incomplete, he will die."
"You can't know that," Nero argued, though doubt crept into his voice as Casteel moaned, his skin now radiating heat like a forge.
"I've seen it before," Makim said quietly. "A noble's son and his true mate. They rejected the bond. By morning, one was dead, and I’m pretty sure guilt made the other one wish he was."
Nero paced, mind racing. "There must be another way."
"I've tried everything in my considerable knowledge," Makim interrupted. He poured some liquid from a jug by the daybed into an empty goblet, and crushed herbs into it, his movements efficient despite his age. "Here, help me get him to drink."
“No.” Nero yanked the goblet from Makim’s hand. “The wine, the juice, it was poisoned with fever white.”
Makim's face darkened with genuine anger.
"Doran's work, no doubt. That man twists sacred traditions to suit his purposes.
" He shook his head in disgust. "Fever white is dangerous enough without mixing it with bond-magic.
" He pulled out a small, corked bottle from his pack.
"This is water. There is no way it can be successfully hidden in an odorless liquid. " He held it up to Nero, who sniffed.
“Why should I trust you?”
"I serve the healing arts, not men's ambitions," Makim replied, checking Casteel's pulse again. "The prophecy has been...interpreted to serve certain interests."
"But you still believe I should..." Nero couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence.
Makim sighed heavily. "What I believe matters little.
His condition is deteriorating rapidly. Without completion of the bond, he will not survive until dawn.
" Together, they lifted Casteel's head, coaxing the bitter liquid past his parched lips.
Some of it spilled down his chin, but he swallowed enough that Makim nodded in satisfaction.
He gathered his supplies, movements betraying his weariness.
"I can return in a bell with more medicine if you require it, but it will only delay matters."
As the healer reached the door, he paused.
"For what it's worth, I believe this bond is genuine.
The fever white was Doran's desperate attempt to force what he feared might not happen naturally.
But that mark on the back of your neck appeared the moment you touched, and no drug can create such a thing. "
The door slammed shut behind him with a bone-rattling thud, sealing Nero alone with the fevered young man.
Casteel’s breaths came in stuttering gusts, each one labored, a wild rhythm broken only by ragged wheezes.
His skin glowed like embers under Nero’s gaze, heat radiating in waves that made the room pulse.
“Damn it,” Nero snarled, perching on the bedside edge. He swept a damp swath of dark hair off Casteel’s forehead. The boy’s body quivered at the touch, a soft, tortured whimper twisting something raw and fierce inside Nero.
What choice did he have? Abandon this innocent to die and cling to his own freedom? He’d slain men by the hundreds—soldiers, enemies of the crown, who’d raised steel against his people. But never someone like Casteel, unblemished by politics, guilty only of blood he couldn’t choose.
Casteel’s eyelids fluttered open, his pupils huge but burning with awareness. “Why… why does it hurt so much?” he rasped, throat raw.
Nero’s voice caught in his throat, coming out gentler than he’d expected. “The healer says it’s the half-finished bond. Your body is fighting for completion.”
Recognition dawned, flickering across Casteel’s face, then despair. “So, I do die today.”
“No,” Nero bit out, the single word carrying all the desperation he felt. “There has to be another way.”
Casteel managed a weak smile. "Always another way, is there? The rebellion taught you that?"
"It taught me to survive," Nero countered. "And that's what we're going to do. Both of us."
"Why would you care?" Casteel's gaze was surprisingly direct despite his condition. "You came here to kill me, anyway."
Nero looked away, unable to meet his pain-filled gaze. "That was before—"
"Before what? A magical mark appeared? Some ancient prophecy decided our fates?" Casteel's bitter laugh dissolved into a cough, and it took another moment before he could speak again. "I'd rather die free than live bound by their manipulations."
The words struck Nero like a physical blow. How many times had he thought the same during the darkest days of the rebellion? How many had died with similar sentiments on their lips?
"You're young," Nero said finally. "Too young to throw your life away on principle."
"And you're old enough to know better," Casteel retorted, a flash of spirit showing through his fever. "What kind of life would it be? Bound to a stranger who resents me, paraded before the masses as some mystical savior?"
Another spasm racked his body, and he curled inward with a muffled cry. Nero reached for him instinctively, and the moment their skin connected, the mark on his neck flared with heat. Casteel gasped, his back arching as if pulled by invisible strings.
“Look at me.” Nero took both of Casteel’s arms, and Casteel opened his eyes.
“I think we should bond. But I won’t touch you without your consent.”
Casteel gaped at him in shock.
“Do you understand what I’m saying?” Nero pressed.
Casteel nodded.
“We have to bond—” he cursed silently. “I have to fuck you. Be in no doubt this is what you want.”
“What about you?” The question took Nero by surprise, and he reached a hand to Casteel’s burning cheek, cupping it gently.
“Yes, it’s what I want. I’ll be as gentle—”
Where Casteel got the strength from, Nero never knew, but he lurched up and his lips found Nero’s, his arms wrapping tightly around his neck.
They kissed as if it were their last, when really it was their first. Nero’s hands trembled as he tore his own clothing away as well as what little remained on Casteel.
His skin seemed even hotter, but it was almost like Nero was addicted to the touch.
Casteel was so responsive and seemed to be much more aware.
“You’re stunning,” Nero murmured, awed by the taut muscle and graceful lines of the young man beneath him.
Casteel’s breath hitched. His hands roamed the scars tattooing Nero’s chest and ribs—badges of the rebellion. “These?” he whispered, tracing a long white line.
“Eastern garrison raid,” Nero said softly. “The day we freed the prisoners.”
Casteel shuddered, then crushed Nero's lips in another fierce kiss, as though he could smother old horrors with new fire, but he was soon exhausted and lay back.
Nero had already made the decision and knew Casteel hadn’t had much gentleness in his life, and while Nero's reactions were making less and less sense even to him, he wanted to change that.
Nero drew slow, patient, coaxing shudders of pleasure from Casteel’s fevered body. He tasted the dip of Casteel’s waist, worshipped the curve of his hip, and lost himself in pleasure he'd thought never possible ever again. Casteel whimpered. "Need you," he murmured.
Nero reached for the oil Makim had brought, knowing that it wasn't tainted. Casteel gasped, arching into Nero’s touch as those fingers reached under Casteel.
He tried to make it good as his fingers teased and probed.
He pulled a cushion underneath Casteel and positioned himself at the entrance made tender by salve and longing.
Their eyes met—blue flame to storm-black.
Then Nero pressed in, filling Casteel inch by slow inch.
The room shivered with the heat of it. A groan tore from Casteel’s chest as Nero paused.
“Don’t you dare stop,” Casteel whimpered, and Nero sank fully home.
Nero hummed against Casteel’s throat, something in him unable to move his lips away from there, as if Casteel’s blood only pulsed for him.
The urge to bite swept through Nero like wildfire, primal and demanding. His teeth grazed the tender skin of Casteel's throat, and the young man tilted his head back in unconscious submission, exposing the vulnerable curve where neck met shoulder.
"I need—" Nero growled, his voice barely recognizable to his own ears.
"Yes," Casteel breathed, his fingers digging into Nero's shoulders. "Whatever it is—yes."