Page 56
I don’t understand what’s happening. I don’t know why my body feels like it’s turning inside out, why every brush of the blanket over my legs is suddenly too much, why my own skin feels unbearable in places. I don’t know why wanting him has become this physical, this consuming, this impossible to hide from. I don’t know why my body is acting like it knows something I don’t.
By late afternoon, I stop pretending I’m okay, even to myself.
I’m on my back, the blanket kicked to the floor and one arm thrown over my eyes, when the room slowly fills with Labrador tea, damp stone, pine, smoke, and the warm, dark scent that belongs to him alone.
My whole body reacts so violently I almost sob. I sit up too fast, the room tilting around me, and there he is in the doorway.
Onyx.
Human shape, though there is nothing fully human about him. He’s bare-chested and barefoot, black hair loose around his shoulders, bright blue eyes fixed on me with a focus that should scare me but instead drags a broken sound out of my throat. His hands hang at his sides, but I can see the tension in them; the restraint.
Deep, humiliating need tears through me, and beneath it is relief so fierce it almost hurts worse. I hate that he’s seeing me like this, but the only thought in my head is finally, as if my body has been waiting for him to come fix this.
His voice touches my mind, quiet and rough with worry. Little Ember.
I shake my head, breath shuddering. “I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me.”
He takes one step into the room. You did not come, he sends, the words smoother now but heavy with everything he held back. You did not answer. Your den smelled of fever. I waited, but I could not anymore.
“I couldn’t,” I say, and my voice cracks. “I couldn’t even stand up long enough to put my boots on. I’m burning up, and I keep having these dreams, and every single one is—” I stop, choking on the words. “It’s you. It’s always you, and it hurts.”
The bond floods with his concern so fast and strong it draws tears into my eyes out of nowhere. He kneels by the bed, one hand coming up instinctively, like he wants to touch me and is holding himself back by force.
What hurts? Tell me.
I laugh once, then drag a hand through my hair. It’s damp again already. “Everything,” I say, then shake my head because that isn’t helpful. “No, not hurt exactly. I don’t know. I’m hot. I can’t think. I can’t—” I break off, breathing too fast.
His gaze drops once, taking in the sweat on my throat, the way my hands clutch the sheet, the trembling I can’t hide, and the fact that my cock is hard through my sweats. The bond brushes me, not prying, not opening doors, only reading what’s already spilling out of me. I feel the exact moment understanding begins to move through him.
“You know what’s wrong with me?”
His thumb strokes once under my ear, and just that small motion nearly wrecks what little composure I’ve got left.
Yes. The bond hums deep and low between us, and I feel the answer gather in him before he gives it a voice. It is bond sickness.
The phrase means absolutely nothing to me, and somehow that’s worse. “What the hell is bond sickness?”
He breathes in slowly. When the bond starts but does not seal. When one opens fully, and the other is already there. His gaze flicks over my flushed skin. You invited me in completely. To your den, your sleep, and your trust. Bond took that as an opening. It wants completion.
The words land heavy, unfamiliar. “And completion means—?”
Mating and mate mark.
I lift my head and search his face for humor, but find none. “You’re serious. So the dreams—”
Preparations, he confirms, fingers brushing sweat-damp hair off my forehead. The bond is showing your body what it is asking for. It is instinct.
I just stare at him, mouth dry, skin burning, every thought in me suddenly trying to run in ten directions at once and getting nowhere.
“That’s why every dream is just…” I gesture helplessly, unable to bring myself to say the words out loud. You, inside me, over me, every version of me giving in.
Onyx cups my face more fully now. Yes.
A tremor runs through me so hard I have to brace a hand against his chest to stay upright. The warmth of him under my palm nearly makes me whimper. He doesn’t react to that beyond the deep, low throb of concern and want that moves through the bond.
I’m too far gone for proper panic, and the heat eating through me has burned out whatever reserve of disbelief I had left. The worst part is, hearing him say it doesn’t feel wrong. It feels like a key sliding into a lock I’ve been rattling for months without understanding what it was for.
He strokes my face again, thumb brushing over my cheekbone with unbearable gentleness, and my body reacts instantly. A quiver runs through me, deep and involuntary, so obvious I know he feels it before the bond even carries it. My breath catches on the edge of a sound I can’t quite swallow down.
