The Alpha’s Last Bride

The fever beneath the silk

Ayla

The sheets were soaked again.

I kicked them off with a frustrated grunt, skin slick with sweat, every muscle aching. My nightgown clung to me like a second skin, damp and twisted from tossing and turning. My head pounded with the same dull, pulsing heat that had been building for days now, like my blood had turned too thick to carry itself properly through my body.

I reached for the pull cord above my bed and yanked. Once. Twice. The bell should have echoed through the servants’ hall by now. Should have sent the maids bustling in with bathwater and clean linens and that cursed potion that never came fast enough.

Nothing.

I pulled again.

Still nothing.

Minutes passed. Maybe longer.

Then, finally—footsteps. Three maids entered, not bothering to knock. One of them wrinkled her nose the moment she stepped inside.

“Luna,” she said stiffly. “You rang?”

“I’m burning up,” I rasped, trying to sit upright. “I need another dose of that medicine—whatever it is. And a bath. Please.”

They exchanged glances. One muttered something under her breath. Another rolled her eyes and began stripping the bed without meeting my gaze.

The third one just stood there, arms crossed, a sour look pinching her mouth. “No one told us you were ill again. You should’ve asked yesterday.”

“I did ask,” I said, my voice hoarse. “No one came.”

She sniffed and turned toward the bathroom with a flurry of skirts. “We’ll see what’s left.”

My bath, when it finally came, was barely lukewarm. The linen they handed me was scratchy. My hairbrush had one of its teeth snapped off, and when I asked if there was another, the tallest maid said, “You’re lucky you’ve got a brush at all.”

I didn’t reply.

Didn’t cry.

I just sat in silence, letting them move around me like I wasn’t there.

When they left, slamming the chamber door behind them, the quiet rang louder than their scorn. I pressed the back of my hand to my forehead. Still burning.

And still no potion. A knock made me flinch. It opened not with a sneer or sigh, but a whisper.

“Luna?” A different voice—smaller, softer. A young kitchen maid stepped in, head lowered. Her hands trembled as she carried a small, stoppered vial.

“I’m sorry,” she said in a rush. “I heard them say you weren’t to be given anything, but… you looked so unwell earlier. I thought maybe—”

I didn’t wait for her to finish. I took the vial with both hands, gulping it down before she could change her mind. It was bitter, earthy. Familiar.

Relief was almost instant.

Not full, but enough. The pounding in my skull dulled. My skin stopped crawling. My hands stopped shaking. When I looked up, the maid was still there, eyes wide. Like she couldn’t believe I’d really taken it.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

She nodded once and slipped out, quiet as a shadow.

And I was alone again. Sweaty, aching, humiliated—but grateful for the first human kindness I’d seen in days.

I dressed in silence, determined not to fall apart again. The maids said little as they tightened my bodice and twisted my hair back with rough, impatient hands. I didn’t bother asking for the breakfast tray. It would arrive cold, if it arrived at all.

Two guards trailed me through the halls like mute shadows. I didn’t know their names—they never offered them—and they never spoke unless I asked a direct question. Even then, their answers were clipped. Rehearsed.

I made my way to the west wing, toward the half-forgotten library I’d stumbled across during an earlier walk. The corridors there were older. Dustier. The portraits faded, the tapestries fraying. The guards stayed close, clearly uncomfortable. One of them muttered something about “ghost halls” when he thought I wasn’t listening.

Good.

Let them be nervous.

I pulled open the heavy library doors and stepped inside. It smelled like parchment and damp stone. Dozens of shelves lined the walls, most half-empty, the rest cluttered with old volumes. A draft whispered through a cracked window. The fire had long since gone out.

I ran my fingers along the spines until I found a battered romance novel—something with a ridiculous title and a swooning heroine on the front. I plucked it from the shelf and turned it over in my hands, amused at the thought of a Stormwatch bride curled up reading this while the rest of the keep conspired against her.

But when I opened the book, something fluttered out.

A scrap of folded paper, yellowed with age.

My heart kicked.

I knelt to retrieve it, hands trembling slightly as I unfolded the note. The ink was faded but legible, the script delicate and slanted—feminine.

I wish I could run. But love doesn’t listen to reason.

He says we’ll find a way. That Damien doesn’t have to know.

But someone always knows here. The walls whisper. And I think they want me gone.

I stared at the page until the words blurred.

A bride had written this. One of the four. Maybe the one who drowned in the bathing pools. Maybe the one who simply never woke.

In love with another, within the walls of Stormwatch.

Had that been her crime?

The guards behind me shifted, growing restless. I quickly folded the note and slid it into my sleeve. Whatever this place was hiding—it was older, deeper, and far crueler than I’d imagined.

And if I didn’t keep my eyes open, it would eat me alive too.

I returned to my chambers before the bell tolled for midday, head pounding and chest tight with something I couldn’t name. The note from the book felt like it burned against my skin through my sleeve, a tiny, damning ember I couldn’t shake.

The guards didn’t speak as they left me at my door. I didn’t thank them.

The room was still cold. Someone had cracked a window. The fire had burned low again. I didn’t bother calling for help. They wouldn’t come—not unless I screamed or bled. I collapsed onto the bed, too tired to cry and too angry to rest.

When I rolled onto my side, something sharp pressed into my shoulder. I sat up, brushing back the blanket. A golden comb rested on the pillow. Ornate. Delicate. Out of place. My brows knit. I hadn’t seen it there earlier.

I picked it up slowly, inspecting the polished metal, the etching of vines and thorns winding along its spine. Expensive. Clearly meant for a Luna.

A peace offering? Or a warning?

Then I turned it slightly, and one of the teeth snapped clean off—sharp and sudden. It sliced my finger open before I even felt the pain. Blood welled instantly. I hissed and pressed my hand against my skirts, eyes darting to the door, then back to the comb.

What the hell kind of gift was this?

My eyes fell to the pillow, where a smear of crimson now bloomed across the pale fabric. The blood soaked into the linen with unnerving speed—gone before I could blink.

No trace. No stain. Just… vanished.

A chill curled up my spine.

The same way they said the first Luna’s blood had vanished. No mark. No explanation. As if the keep had swallowed it whole.

I clutched the broken comb tighter, the sharp tooth still warm with my blood.

Whatever this was—curse or warning or twisted tradition—I had a sinking feeling it had only just begun.

The ache returned, deeper this time. Gnawing.

My joints throbbed like I’d run for miles. My throat was dry, my skin too tight. Even beneath the thick quilt, I couldn’t get warm—but my cheeks burned with fever. The potion was wearing off.

Too soon.

I dragged myself to the washbasin and splashed cold water over my face. It did nothing. The chill barely registered.

I was shaking again.

The trembles had started in my fingers but now ran deeper—my core thrumming with something strange, unfamiliar, like a chord being plucked inside me over and over again.

I curled into the center of the bed, pressing my my eyes shut as I forced myself to sleep.

This couldn’t be… it wasn’t… heat, was it?

I groaned softly, burying my face in the pillow, trying to convince myself it was just illness. Just another reaction. Just exhaustion or poison or the way grief rearranged your body until nothing felt right anymore.

I don't know how much time passed before I was jolted awake by my chamber door slamming open. I shot upright, heart skidding in my chest.

Damien stood in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame, chest heaving like he’d sprinted up from the depths of the keep. His coat hung open. His eyes were pitch-dark, glowing faintly under the low firelight.

But my scent—gods, I could smell myself. Sticky and thick, cloying. I swore I could feel it hanging in the air.

His nostrils flared once, A guttural growl rumbled deep in his throat.

His words came low and cold. “Did you really think you could get out of your Luna duties?”