Third Person's POV The next morning, Magnus still didn't make it to the healer's hall. Because Aysel -his little Moonvale rose-had fallen ill. Too much had happened the night before. She had stood in the storm for far too long, every nerve strung tight, confronting the "surprise" Anna had prepared in the Shadowbane side wing. She ran up and down the fortress clearing the mess alone, carrying the weight of bloodlines and politics on her shoulders. Once she was finally home-safe, warm, her guard lowered-her body gave out. The fever rose before dawn. Magnus noticed only when the warmth in his arms turned scorching, her wolf scent flickering weakly like a candle drowning in wax. Across the city, in his own den, Kian-the chief healer-had barely closed his eyes. He'd fought through the rain the night before to treat Magnus himself and had just settled back into his own bed when he was dragged out again. His resentment was thick enough to summon spirits from the underworld. He grumbled curses the entire run... Yet his footsteps accelerated the moment he learned who the patient was. Because even Kian liked Aysel. More importantly-Aysel was the only one in the entire continent who could restrain Magnus Sanchez, the most lethal Alpha alive, whose wolf Rafe feared nothing under the moon. If Aysel's bright, fierce little mind burned out from fever... it would be a loss to the world. Fortunately, it was only a normal fever from storm and exhaustion. After all, she had survived under Moonvale Pack's pressure for more than ten years. A childhood forged in bloodlines and cruelty gave her a stronger mind than most Alphas twice her age. A wide enough heart... not something easily shaken by sinister auras or human malice. Kian hung the IV, yawning like a dying bear."All right," he mumbled, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. "Let this bag finish. Take the meds on time. I'm borrowing your coffee table to nap." He couldn't sleep on beds that weren't his, and he didn't dare leave-who knew if Magnus would summon him back in ten minutes? Without waiting for permission, he stomped to the living room. Silence fell over the bedroom. Aysel lay there, her pale cheeks flushed with fevered red. Strands of damp hair clung to the side of her face. The contrast between her ink-black hair and her snow-pale skin made her look softer, weaker-almost breakable. She felt an itch on her cheek and didn't want to lift her arm, so she scrubbed her face against the pillow like a restless cub. The once-fiery Moonvale rose now looked small and heart-achingly helpless. Magnus stood beside the bed, staring at her. He brushed the stray locks from her face, his expression unreadable, his wolf crouching low beneath his skin. Then- A tiny pinky finger hooked around his. Her voice was faint, raspy, yet full of mischief. "Last night you got injections... today it's my turn. Don't you think that's way too synchronized?" She shook his finger lightly. Magnus sat down and pulled her into his arms, careful not to jostle the needle in her hand. "That's one kind of synchronization we never need again." He pressed a soft kiss to her. Aysel turned her head away immediately, rejecting him with a fever-fuzzy glare. "Haven't you heard? Kissing spreads fevers." Magnus caught her chin, ignored her protests, and kissed her firmly. When he finally let her breathe, his voice was hoarse."Then let it spread to me." Aysel answered by pinching his waist like a warrior striking an Alpha in the ribcage. "I knew it," she muttered. "You're just taking advantage of a sick person." The pinch barely caused discomfort-Magnus's body was built like Alpha-forged iron-but it made his lips curve. "How can caring for a sick mate be called taking advantage?" "Then go kiss your grandfather." Magnus: "..." Across the city, Bastien was having the worst morning of the decade. Yesterday, the entire family crowded his hospital ward, refusing to leave, pretending to care while calculating inheritance splits. Today? Not a single Sanchez showed up. They were too terrified of Magnus after last night's display of cold, efficient brutality. Every one of them stayed home to count their assets, re-evaluate loyalties, and hide whatever wealth they could before Magnus noticed. They weren't about to fight over Bastien's inheritance anymore. They weren't sure they could keep their own property alive by next week. Besides, the healer had said the old wolf wasn't dying yet. And everyone assumed someone else would go. So the ward was dead silent. But Bastien didn't care about them. He cared about Magnus. He had planned to use today to observe Magnus's attitude toward the child from the fifth branch-little Alfie. He wanted to test the temperature of the family's future.Instead, he was told: "Magnus can't come. He's caring for his little girlfriend. He'll be busy for days." Bastien slammed his hand on the bed. Wonderful. Magnus's own grandfather was less important than some slip of a girl? An ER trip couldn't compete with a little fever?! His anger spiked so hard his heart monitor drew mountains on the screen. The nurse considered increasing his oxygen. The old patriarch pressed a hand to his chest. "That boy... that boy is going to be the death of me." And somewhere across the city, Magnus sneezed. Aysel narrowed her eyes. "See? Fever's already spreading." Magnus tightened his arms around her, silent, possessive, resigned. She nuzzled deeper into him, cheeks flushed. And even sick, exhausted, and half-asleep... Aysel still smelled like moonblossoms and storm rain-the only scent Magnus would ever bow to.