"The bond says otherwise."
"Fuck the bond." She steps closer. "You want to know what the bond actually says? It says my body needs you to survive. That'sit. Not my heart. Not my mind. Not my choice. Just my stupid, traitorous biology that would rather kill me than let me be free."
"I know." And I do. The data supports it. Triple fated bonds have never been rejected successfully. The mortality rate is—
She slaps me.
The crack echoes across the terrace. My cheek burns.
"Stop thinking," she says. "Stop analyzing and cataloging and solving me like I'm a problem to be fixed. I'm a person, Corvus. A person whose life you destroyed because you couldn't control your biology."
My cheek throbs. She's breathing hard, eyes bright with unshed tears.
And I've never wanted her more.
Which is fucked up. Which proves everything she just said. Which makes me exactly the monster I know I am.
"I won't hurt Ben," I hear myself say. "I'll try not to. I can't promise. But I'll try."
"Why?"
"Because you asked." I touch my burning cheek. "Because you're right. About all of it. And because—" I stop. Force the words out. "Because making you hate me more won't make you mine. It'll just prove I never deserved you in the first place."
She stares at me for a long moment.
Then she turns and walks away.
I watch her go. Watch the door close behind her. Stand there with my burning cheek and my racing heart and the knowledge that I just confessed something I didn't even know I felt.
I pull out my phone. Delete the files I'd been compiling on Ben. Close the browser tabs. Erase the plans I'd been making.
It doesn't make me good.
But maybe it makes me slightly less of a monster.
And right now, with Vespera's handprint still burning on my face, that's the best I can hope for.
seventeen
Vespera
Iwakeupfeeling...better.
Not good. Not healed. But better.
The fever that's been my constant companion for weeks is lower. Still there, hovering around 99 instead of 101. My left hand, which has been shaking for days, is steadier. The tremor is gone when I flex my fingers.
Being near them is helping.
I hate that. Hate that my body is rewarding proximity to my kidnappers. Hate that the biology they claimed gives them is actually working.
But I can't deny it anymore.
Since they brought me here—breathing their scents, sleeping under the same roof—my rejection sickness has stabilized. Not gone. Still sick. But not actively dying anymore.
Sitting up, I survey my room.
The door is unlocked. Has been since Dorian gave me my phone back.
