Chapter 213: Fever

Liam woke because he was too hot.

For one confused, half-asleep second, he thought Marin’s ward had malfunctioned and decided that recovery required slow roasting. Then he realized the heat was not coming from the ward, the blankets, or the room’s climate system.

It was coming from Arik.

Liam opened his eyes.

He was lying half on top of Arik, one arm trapped between them, cheek pressed against the prince’s chest, his legs tangled in the sheets because apparently at some point in the night his recovering body had decided self-worth was optional and Arik was furniture.

Very hot furniture.

Arik’s skin burned beneath him.

Liam blinked, then lifted his head.

Arik was deeply asleep.

That alone was alarming.

Arik did not sleep like normal people. He rested like the weapon he was: beautiful, dangerous, and clearly prepared to hurt someone if necessary. Even when exhausted, some part of him stayed aware.

Now, he did not stir at all.

His black hair was damp against the pillow. His breathing was slow but heavy. His face, usually too controlled even in sleep, was flushed along the cheekbones, lips parted slightly, lashes dark against skin too warm to be healthy.

Liam stared.

Then pressed his palm to Arik’s throat.

Heat pulsed under his hand.

"Arik."

Nothing.

Liam pushed himself up, grimacing when his healing channels objected to the motion. Marin’s ward gave a faint blue pulse beneath his shirt, probably offended that he had dared to move without a signed request.

"Not now," Liam muttered.

He reached for Arik’s shoulder and shook him.

"Arik."

Arik did not wake.

That made fear move cleanly through Liam, cutting past irritation, past sleep, past the strange comfort of waking in Arik’s arms.

"Arik," he said louder.

Still nothing.

Liam sat up fully, which was absolutely forbidden by his body, the ward, and probably every person in the palace who had become invested in his ability to breathe.

Arik’s arm tightened around his waist reflexively, possessively.

Still asleep.

Liam froze.

The heat in the room seemed to deepen.

Arik’s scent, stronger, darker, and threaded with the heavy pull of rut pheromones restrained for too long.

Liam’s stomach dropped.

"Oh," he whispered.

Arik’s fingers flexed against his side.

Liam looked down at him, then placed his hand on Arik’s face, ignoring how his own pulse kicked.

"Arik. Wake up. You either have a fever, or I have lost all perception of temperature, and both options are inconvenient."

Arik made a low sound of refusal.

Then, with the exhausted strength of a man who could apparently ignore consciousness but not Liam trying to leave, he dragged Liam back down against his chest.

Liam landed with an undignified breath.

"Arik."

The prince’s arms closed around him.

His face turned into Liam’s hair, and he breathed in so deeply that Liam went still from head to toe.

"No," Liam said, though his voice came out far less steady than intended. "You do not get to sleep through medical emergencies while using me as a sedative."

Arik’s answer was another rough sound.

His body was a furnace beneath Liam’s.

His heartbeat was too fast now.

Liam swallowed.

He could have called Marin.

He should have called Marin.

Instead, because apparently poisoning, recovery, historical revelations, and being denied Gate blueprints had not improved his survival instincts, Liam lifted his head and kissed him.

It was meant to wake him.

A medical intervention disguised as affection, which Liam felt was emotionally fair given what Arik had done to his entire life recently.

Arik woke.

Immediately.

Gold eyes snapped open beneath Liam’s mouth, bright and unfocused for one terrible second before awareness crashed into them.

Then his whole body changed.

His hand locked at Liam’s back.

His breath caught.

The room’s wards shivered.

Liam pulled back just enough to see Arik’s pupils widen, the gold darkening around them, hunger and heat and control fighting so violently across his face that Liam forgot the insult he had been preparing.

"Liam," Arik said.

His voice was rough and low, scraping over Liam’s skin.

Liam’s mouth went dry.

"That woke you."

"Yes."

"In hindsight, perhaps too well."

Arik closed his eyes, jaw clenching hard enough to hurt. "Move."

Liam froze.

Arik’s eyes opened again, and there was panic beneath the heat now.

"Move away from me," Arik said, each word dragged through control. "Slowly."

Liam’s pulse kicked again, but not from fear.

That was inconvenient.

"You are in rut."

"Yes."

"How long?"

"Days."

Liam stared at him. "Days?"

"Suppressed."

"Of course it was." Liam’s voice sharpened, though his body remained trapped between Arik’s arms because Arik had not yet released him and Liam, traitor that he was, had not quite demanded it. "You were suppressing a rut while managing Wrohan, the engagement, Felix, the piano, and my recovery?"

"You were poisoned."

"That is not an answer. That is evidence of stupidity."

"I know."

"You look like you are burning alive."

"I know."

"Do you have medication?"

Arik’s gaze flicked to the nightstand.

Liam followed it.

A long black case sat half-hidden behind a glass of water and a stack of reports. Discreet. Elegant. Ominous in the way royal medical supplies always were.

Arik released Liam with visible effort and reached toward it.

His hand shook once.

Liam saw.

Arik hated that he saw.

Liam pushed himself up enough to grab the case first.

"Liam."

"Do not growl at the patient helping you with your bad decisions."

"I can do it."

"You could also apparently suppress a rut for days and pretend that was a plan."

"It was working."

"You are sweating through the sheets."

"It was working poorly."

"Progress. Honesty."

Liam opened the case.

Inside, several syringes rested in fitted black foam, each already prepared, labeled with neat dosage marks, and sealed under medical ward stamps. Marin’s work, clearly, because even the syringes looked judgmental.

Liam’s expression flattened. "Marin knew."

"Yes."

"Did everyone know?"

"No."

That answer came too fast.

Liam looked at him.

Arik, flushed, breathing too hard, still beautiful enough to make fever look like warfare, said, "Marin. Mezos. Kamal."

Liam narrowed his eyes.

"And Stanford," Arik admitted.

"Of course, Stanford."

"He is your chief of security."

"He is also a professional traitor."

"He kept me away from you when necessary."

Liam paused.

That was harder to mock.

Arik slowly sat up against the headboard, though the movement clearly cost him. The air around him pulsed warmer. His pheromones dragged at the edge of Liam’s senses, rich and heavy and controlled only because Arik was forcing every part of himself into obedience.

He held out one hand. "Give it to me."

Liam looked at the syringe, then at Arik.

"Will it work?"

"Yes."

"Will it hurt?"

Arik’s silence answered.

Liam’s jaw tightened. "Arik."

"It is better than the alternative."

"The alternative being?"

Arik looked at him.

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