Chapter 4: Fever Dreams and Midnight Heat

The blade bit into Rangga’s finger. A single, dark bead of blood welled up, shimmering with an impossible, oily iridescence before he pressed it onto the parchment. The moment the seal was made, the air in the dining hall didn't just move; it shrieked.

"There. Happy?" Rangga wheezed, his skin suddenly prickling with a cold, electric static.

Arung watched the ink and blood swirl together. "I’m not the one who needs to be happy, Rangga. The legacy is."

"My head... it feels like it’s splitting open." Rangga gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles white.

"That’s the bond taking root. Come on. You aren't staying here." Arung was at his side in a heartbeat, his arm sliding around Rangga’s waist like a steel band.

"Don't touch me... " Rangga’s protest died in his throat as a wave of nausea rolled through him. The room began to tilt.

"Easy. You're shaking."

"I’m fine. Just get your hands off me."

"You’re burning up. If I let go, you’ll hit the floor."

"Then let me hit it. I’d rather die than be your pet."

Arung laughed, a dry, humorless sound. "You’re too exhausted to even stand. Don't waste your energy on pride."

Hours later, the guest room was suffocating. Rangga thrashed against the silk sheets, his body a furnace. Every nerve ending felt like it was being flayed alive.

"Arung! Damn you, get in here!" Rangga gasped, his voice raspy.

The door opened instantly. Arung stepped in, his eyes scanning the room with predatory precision.

"You called?"

"Make it stop. It feels like my skin is boiling."

Arung crossed the room, the temperature dropping perceptibly as he approached. "I told you. You’re resisting the shift."

"Shift? What shift? I’m just dying!"

"You aren't dying. You’re changing. Your blood is reacting to the pact."

"I don't care about the pact! Help me!" Rangga reached out, his hand clutching at Arung’s sleeve, pulling him down.

"You want me closer?" Arung whispered, his voice dangerously soft.

"I want the cold. You’re the only thing here that isn't burning."

Arung shed his jacket, his movements fluid and calculated. He sat on the edge of the bed, his hand moving to Rangga’s throat. "I can take the fire away, but there's a price."

"Anything. Just do it."

"You belong to me, Rangga. Not just in name, not just on paper. Do you understand?"

"Yes! Just stop the pain!"

Arung leaned in, his cool lips grazing Rangga’s forehead. "Tell me. Whose are you?"

"Yours," Rangga sobbed, his mind fogging, his body arching instinctively toward the cool, magnetic energy Arung radiated. "I’m yours. Just fix me."

"Say it again. Properly."

"I’m yours, Arung. I’m yours."

Arung’s touch turned from medicinal to possessive, his hands tracing the lines of Rangga’s chest, his icy palms acting as a balm against the fevered skin. As he pressed closer, a strange, sweet scent flooded the room, the smell of mountain jasmine and deep, damp earth.

"You’re sweet," Arung murmured, his voice vibrating against Rangga’s ear. "The bond is hungry, Rangga."

"It’s not just you," Rangga panted, his hands digging into Arung’s shoulders. "I can feel... everything. I can feel you."

"Good. Keep feeling me. Don't fight it."

Arung pulled him flush against his body. The collision of Arung’s unnatural cold and Rangga’s raging heat was explosive. Rangga gasped as the sensation washed over him, a chaotic mixture of agony and relief.

"Is this the life you wanted?" Arung teased, his breath ghosting over Rangga’s skin. "The life in Jakarta?"

"Forget Jakarta," Rangga choked out, his rational mind drowning in the rush of the connection. "There's only this."

"That’s the most honest thing you’ve said since you arrived."

Arung didn't hold back. His hands guided Rangga, asserting a dominance that left no room for doubt or escape. Every touch felt like a seal, every breath they shared reinforcing the invisible, iron-tight chain that now bound their souls together.

"Arung... stop... no, wait, don't," Rangga stammered, his body betraying his words, arching into the touch, craving the intensity that was purging the fever.

"Make up your mind, Rangga."

"Don't you dare stop."

The room blurred. The walls of the mansion seemed to pulse in sync with their heartbeats. Arung moved with a predatory grace, his cold energy anchoring Rangga, pulling him down into the depths of the Buntu heritage, consuming his defiance and replacing it with something far more permanent.

The fire in Rangga’s veins didn't just vanish; it was redirected, channeled into the bond until he felt hollow, exhausted, and completely, terrifyingly rewritten.

Morning sunlight crept through the heavy velvet curtains, thin and pale.

Rangga blinked, his eyelids feeling heavy, as if weighted with lead. He tried to move, but a heavy arm was draped over his chest. He turned his head and saw Arung, sleeping with the stillness of a statue.

Rangga shifted, a sharp intake of breath escaping his lips. He looked down at his own arms.

They weren't just skin anymore.

Faint, intricate geometric lines, the same swirling patterns he’d seen etched onto the silver dagger—were glowing beneath his skin, tracing the veins of his forearms and disappearing into his sleeves. They pulsed with a soft, rhythmic crimson light, mimicking the beat of his heart.

He tried to rub them away, but the lines only flared brighter under his touch.

"Beautiful, aren't they?"

Rangga froze. Arung’s eyes were open, watching him with an intensity that made the air in the room feel thin.

"What did you do to me?" Rangga whispered, his voice trembling.

Arung traced one of the glowing lines on Rangga’s arm with a gloved finger. "I didn't do anything, Rangga. I just awakened what was always there."

Rangga scrambled back, hitting the headboard. "I look like a freak. What is this?"

Arung sat up, the sheets sliding away to reveal the same faint, pulsating marks spreading across his own chest. "It’s not a curse. It’s a mark of ownership."

"I’m not a tattoo," Rangga hissed, his heart hammering as the glow flared in response to his rising anger. "I want them gone."

Arung reached out, grabbing Rangga’s chin and forcing him to look directly into those dark, abyss-like eyes.

"They won't go away," Arung said softly, his voice cold enough to freeze the blood in Rangga's veins. "And neither will I. Look at the door, Rangga."

Rangga looked. The heavy, reinforced oak door was glowing with the same pulsing crimson light, the wooden grain shifting and rearranging into the crest of the Buntu family.

"The doors don't open from the inside anymore," Arung whispered, leaning in close. "You’re not just in my house now. You’re a part of the architecture."

Rangga’s breath hitched as he realized the windows weren't showing the outside world anymore. The glass had turned to obsidian, reflecting only the dim, trapped interior of the room.

"What have you done to the house?"

Arung smiled, a cold, sharp expression. "I didn't do anything to the house, Rangga. I just finished the cage."