Fever Without Mercy
1466 Words
That night, hell did not come in the form of a nightmare.
It came as heat.
Amara woke with a sharp gasp, her lungs burning as though she had inhaled fire instead of air. Sweat drenched her nightgown, clinging cold and sticky to her skin, yet her body felt like it was being scorched from the inside out. Pain pulsed violently through her left breast—deep, relentless, and merciless—nothing like the familiar ache of fullness. This was different. This felt wrong.
She pressed her palm against it and cried out.
The skin was hot. Too hot. Swollen so tightly that it felt as if it might split. Beneath her fingers, hard knots resisted every attempt to ease them, each touch sending a spike of agony straight through her chest and into her skull. Her milk ducts were clogged, inflamed from hours of overproduction fueled by stress and her captive body.
Ares had slept too long.
Four hours without nursing had turned her body against her.
Amara curled inward on the pile of blankets, trembling as she tried to massage the swelling herself. Her hands shook too badly to apply real pressure, and every weak attempt ended in another broken sound escaping her throat. The darkness of the walk-in closet pressed in around her, thick with the scent of sandalwood and male musk that never truly faded. She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing—foolishly—for privacy.
In this castle, privacy did not exist.
Light spilled suddenly through the narrow opening of the closet door. Yellow, sharp, invasive. Heavy footsteps followed, steady and unmistakable, stopping just short of her curled form. Raxus’s shadow filled the space before his voice did.
“You’re crying.”
It wasn’t a question. There was tension in his tone, something sharp beneath the usual cold authority. “Is the baby dead?”
Amara shook her head weakly against the blanket. “No… Ares is asleep. It’s me.”
She barely registered the movement before he was kneeling beside her. A large hand turned her onto her back with efficiency rather than gentleness, and the back of his fingers brushed her forehead. His expression hardened instantly.
“You’re burning,” he muttered.
His gaze dropped, assessing, calculating—until it stopped at her left hand, still clutching her swollen breast as if trying to hold herself together. Even in the dim light, the damage was obvious. The thin silk of her nightgown stretched taut over inflamed skin flushed deep red, angry blue veins standing out beneath the surface.
“Mastitis,” Raxus said flatly.
The word landed like a verdict. He straightened at once, already turning away. “If this worsens, the infection will enter your blood. Your milk will become poison to Ares.” His jaw tightened. “I’ll call the doctor.”
“Please…” Amara sobbed, desperation tearing the word from her chest. The pain was blinding now, radiating outward until it felt as though her entire body was on fire.
Raxus halted mid-step.
The word doctor lingered in the air, twisting into something dark inside him. The pack physician was a Beta. A male. Allowing another man into this space—touching Amara’s fevered body, seeing her exposed, seeing what belonged inside his den—
His molars ground together. The wolf surged violently against his restraint.
No.
He turned back slowly, the decision already made before reason could catch up.
“Forget the doctor,” Raxus said, his voice low and final. “He’ll take too long.”
Without waiting for her response, he disappeared into the bathroom and returned moments later with a basin of steaming water and a towel. He set them down with deliberate care, then sat in front of her, the small space immediately saturated with his presence. Heat. Dominance. The grounding, dangerous scent of sandalwood that made Amara’s pulse stutter despite the pain.
“Remove it,” he said. “I’ll deal with the rest.”
Fear cut through the agony. Amara’s hands flew to the blanket, clutching it to her chest. “No. I can do it myself. I just need the compress—”
“Your hands are shaking,” Raxus interrupted, leaning forward and stripping the blanket away with ease. “That blockage needs force. You don’t have it.”
She shook her head, tears spilling freely now. “Please—”
Raxus’s eyes darkened. “Or I can bring Dorian.”
The threat was surgical.
Amara froze.
She knew he meant it. She knew what it would cost her if another man laid hands on her body under Raxus’s gaze. With stiff, trembling fingers, she lowered the straps of her nightgown. The silk slid down to her waist, exposing overheated skin to the cool air.
Raxus inhaled sharply—and forced himself not to react.
Her left breast was swollen nearly beyond recognition, glossy with heat, flushed an angry red. Painfully full. Dangerous. He reminded himself of that as he soaked the towel and pressed it carefully against her chest.
Amara gasped as the heat seeped into her skin, relief and pain colliding so hard that her head fell back against the wall. Her neck arched unconsciously, damp with sweat, pulse fluttering visibly beneath the surface.
“This will hurt,” Raxus warned, his voice roughening. “Don’t scream.”
His hand closed around the base of her breast.
The contact was electric.
Not s****l. Not yet. But intimate in a way that stripped away distance and pretense. His touch was firm, clinical, unyielding as he worked methodically, breaking apart the hardened knots beneath her skin with merciless precision.
Amara cried out, her body writhing instinctively as she tried to pull away. Raxus’s other hand locked around her waist, anchoring her in place.
“Hold still,” he growled. “I’m not finished.”
He pressed harder, thumb driving upward in a single controlled motion.
Amara’s scream cut off sharply as the blockage finally gave way.
Relief crashed over her in a blinding wave.
Warm liquid spilled freely, soaking his hand, splattering against his bare chest. The pain vanished so suddenly it left her dizzy, her body sagging forward before she even realized she was falling. Raxus caught her automatically, her weight slumping against him as she gasped, overwhelmed by the sudden absence of agony.
“It’s gone…” she whispered weakly. “It’s gone…”
Raxus didn’t answer.
He sat there, unmoving, half-naked woman in his arms, his hand slick with warmth that had no business feeling like this. The air in the cramped closet changed, thickened, saturated with the sweet scent of milk and something deeper—relief, vulnerability, surrender.
His control fractured. Not shattered. Not yet. But cracked enough to let something dangerous breathe.
Raxus finally moved, drawing in a long breath as if forcing something wild back into its cage. He eased Amara away just enough to look at her properly. Her skin was pale beneath the fever, lashes damp, lips parted as her breathing slowly steadied. She looked fragile in a way that scraped against his instincts—and that only made the restraint harder.
“That’s enough,” he said, the words flat, more a command to himself than to her.
He cleaned his hand quickly with the towel, then replaced it with a fresh cloth, warmer this time. His touch changed. Controlled. Measured. No longer breaking, no longer demanding—only ensuring the pain would not return. Still, the closeness lingered, heavy and unresolved, the air between them thick with what should not exist.
Amara opened her eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered, voice hoarse, her body still leaning weakly against the wall.
Raxus did not answer right away. His gaze dropped briefly, then lifted to her face again. The silence stretched, weighted with thoughts he refused to name. The scent in the cramped space had not faded, and he was acutely aware of how little distance separated them now—too little for something meant to be purely necessary.
He stepped back abruptly, breaking it.
“Rest,” he ordered. “I’ll make sure Ares feeds on time. If the fever rises, you tell me.”
Amara nodded.
Raxus turned toward the door, then stopped. Without looking back, he spoke, his voice low and tightly held. “You don’t get to hurt your body like that again. Not under my watch.”
The door closed.
Amara was left alone with her racing pulse—and with the unsettling realization that the warmth still clinging to her skin no longer felt like relief alone.
Somewhere beyond the door, Raxus stood in the dark corridor, one hand clenched into a fist as a single thought cut through him with brutal clarity:
Next time, he wasn’t sure he would stop.
- Writer
