apollo’s hands were stained with blood and obsession, and the syringe in his grip looked more like a weapon than mercy. the infection was rising again—he could feel it in the heat of her skin, in the way her breath hitched, shallow and wrong. seven hours. that was all the time they ever had. seven hours before the fever tried to take her from him again.

he straddled her hips, one hand wrapped around her wrist, holding her steady. the other hovered just above her skin, needle poised. she didn’t resist. she never did. maybe it was trust. maybe it was surrender. maybe she finally understood that she belonged to him now. “you think i like this?” his voice was low, sharp. not angry. not gentle. just true. “you think i enjoy watching you suffer under my hands?”

he pushed the needle in. slow. deliberate. her back arched, a small sound catching in her throat—pain or pleasure, he couldn’t tell. maybe both. “i hate this,” he said, jaw tight. “hate seeing you in pain.” he leaned closer, lips brushing the side of her face, his breath hot against her ear. “but i hate the idea of losing you more.”

the drug slid into her veins. she trembled under him, and he held her there, steady. watching her come back to him inch by inch. “you’re mine,” he whispered. “i’ll burn this world to the ground before i let it take you.” he dropped the syringe and didn’t move. his hand stayed on her wrist, thumb pressing down, feeling her pulse return—weak, but steady.

“next time you try to throw yourself into danger, i won’t just inject you,” he said. “i’ll chain you to me. i’ll make sure the only thing you bleed for is me.” his mouth hovered just above hers, not kissing. not yet. “i don’t save you because i’m kind. i save you because i can’t survive without you.”