“Okay, okay,” I mumble, trying to bat him away, but my arm is heavy and useless. The sofa cushion beneath me is warm from my body, my blanket thrown halfway to the floor. At some point last night I must have left the sofa, stumbled into my bedroom, then wandered to the bathroom and… apparently never made it back to bed.
I lift my head and immediately regret it. My mouth feels like I tried to eat an entire desert. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. My skin hums under the thin cotton of my T-shirt, and when the fabric drags against my stomach, a thrill shoots low and hot, like someone struck a match inside me.
“Oh no,” I whisper.
Last night wasn’t a fluke. My body is still singing with something electric. It isn’t heat—at least, not a heat I recognize. Just a restless, hazy buzz that sits under my skin like it’s waiting for something.
Thistle meows, the sound ridiculously accusatory.
“Don’t look at me like that.” My voice cracks. “I had… I don’t know. A magical meltdown. A hormone malfunction. A full-body error.”
He gives a chuff, tail flicking.
I press a hand to my forehead. I’m damp with sweat, even though the house is cold, and the air around me smells faintly of rain and ozone from last night’s storm. My legs feel wobbly when I stand. My T-shirt hangs crooked over one shoulder.
I’m in panties—when did I change? There’s no memory of peeling off my clothes. Just flashes of running through the storm, Damon shouting orders, lightning tearing across the quarry sky.
And Amara’s panicked face.
And my own body buzzing like someone wired me into a live line.
I shuffle toward the bathroom, Thistle trotting after me like he thinks I might fall over. The tiles are freezing. I turn the shower handle, but the low hiss of cold water feels like too much effort. My head swims.
Bath. Cold bath. That’s what I need.
I twist the faucet over to fill the tub instead. The water gushes out, clear and sharp, the kind of cold that feels like it has teeth. My throat is so dry I swear I could swallow the entire bathtub, so I cup my hands under the stream and drink straight from the tap.
“Don’t judge me,” I warn Thistle.
He sits, curling his tail around his paws like a king observing a peasant.
The cold steam rises off the filling tub, brushing my overheated skin. I breathe in, breathe out. My pulse feels wrong—too fast, too eager for no reason. My body hums again when I hook my fingers under the hem of my shirt and peel it off. Then I take off my panties, ignoring the wet patch in the middle.
Goosebumps break out instantly, a mix of chill and something low and needy that I refuse to name.
This is fine. I just need to cool down before I burn through the floorboards.
The water reaches halfway, enough to sink into. I climb in, teeth clenching as the cold wraps around me. Relief hits so deep my vision blurs for a second. The ache in my limbs loosens, the fog in my head thins, and every frantic electric spark under my skin dims just enough for me to breathe again.
“Oh, thank god,” I groan, leaning back against the porcelain. The chill works its way through my overheated muscles, smoothing out the buzzing that’s been making me feel half-feral.
A minute passes. Or five. Or ten. The sound of the faucet is soothing, like rainfall against a window. My eyes drift shut.
Then—
A knock on the bathroom door.
I jolt upright, water sloshing over the rim.
“You in there?” Amara’s voice floats through, rough and sleepy.
“Bath,” I call out, trying not to cough. My throat still feels ruined, like I swallowed smoke.
“Okay,” she says, her words muffled. “Damon’s here to pick me up. He’s dropping me at the manor.”
“Oh.” I clear my throat. “Okay. What time is it?”
It feels like maybe thirty minutes have passed since that explosion of lightning and fire at the quarry, but also like maybe three days.
