"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.
