The urgency gnawed through my organs and shredded what remained of my sanity.
Wake up. Get to her. Save her. This time.
But my body was a prison. Paralyzed. Unresponsive. My eyelids were sealed with lead. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak beyond a broken whisper. Couldn’t do anything but burn.
Then I felt her in my bed.
A warmth my dying body recognized even as my mind clawed through the haze.
“Perseph—” The forbidden name almost escaped. I swallowed it back, tasted blood. “Bloom?”
My voice was barely audible. She probably couldn’t hear me. I was still trapped between waking and dying, caught in the hollow where gods fade.
I needed her. Needed to hold her. To feel her alive and whole and safe in my arms. Proof that this time, I hadn’t failed.
Then, like a miracle torn from fate’s throat, I felt the curse leave my blood.
The poison that had been eating me for days, burning through my veins and turning my power against itself, began to retreat. My flesh knitted itself back together. The wounds from Hera’s Whip, which had refused to close, finally sealed.
I forced my eyes open. My vision swam, blurred with fever and pain. Shapes bled into shadows.
But I saw her.
The outline of a beautiful woman hovered above me. Radiant smile. Soft curves. My mate.
Relief hit me so hard it hurt.
I reached for her with a trembling hand. My fingers brushed her cheek, and she leaned into the touch instantly, pressing against my palm as if she’d been starving for it.
Joy detonated inside me. Relief, lust, need, love—all flooding my veins at once, more intoxicating than any poison.
My mate had always been like this. In every lifetime, every version of herself, this never changed. She knew me. Her body recognized mine even when her mind refused to remember.
I pulled her down. She came willingly. Eagerly. She’d already been leaning over me as if she couldn’t bear the space between us. Her hands framed my face, holding me like I was precious. Like I might vanish if she loosened her grip.
I closed my eyes and let myself feel it—her need, her hunger, her desperation.
My mate had missed me.
A savage satisfaction almost tore a laugh from my throat.
Her soft, warm lips crashed against mine. Her tongue traced the seam of my mouth, urging, demanding entrance.
I was about to give it. About to take everything she offered.
Then the wrongness hit me like a gut punch.
My awareness snapped into razor focus. The curse was gone. My strength surged back, and my senses sharpened.
And I knew with cold certainty:
This woman was not my mate.
She wore Bloom’s perfume, the exact blend of jasmine and night-blooming flowers. She’d used Bloom’s soap; I could smell the moon blossoms on her skin. She had gone to meticulous lengths to mimic my mate’s scent.
But she wasn’t her.
The feeling was wrong. The taste was wrong. The energy was wrong.
