"You'll heal."
"Cold." But he's still smiling. "Same time tomorrow?"
I nod and turn away before I have to make conversation. Before I have to pretend I'm fine, that I'm not changing into something I don't understand, that I'm not furious at a king who's hiding answers I need.
The bond tugs at me as I cross the courtyard.
He's watching. I can feel him in the shadows of the eastern colonnade, that weight of golden eyes on my back. And then his scent hits me—smoke and cedar and something darker underneath, something that makes my thighs clench and my pulse jump no matter how much I hate it.
I don't turn around.
Don't acknowledge him.
But my body remembers. The scrape of his stubble against my throat. The bruising grip of his hands on my hips. The way he filled me so completely I couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but take what he gave me and beg for more.
I keep walking. Force my legs to move even as heat pools low in my belly, even as slick threatens to gather between my thighs.
The hidden page presses against my skin like a secret. Like a weapon I'm not ready to use yet.
He removed those texts. I'm sure of it now. Cleaned out everything that might tell me what I'm becoming, what his blood is doing to me, whether I'm dying slow or turning into something else entirely.
He's keeping me in the dark.
And I'm going to find out why.
Five weeks since my heat. Five weeks of training and research and changes I can't explain. Five weeks of wanting a monster I should be trying to kill.
The bond hums between us as I walk away from his hidden gaze. I feel him track my movement, feel the weight of his attention like hands on my skin.
I ignore it.
For now.
12
Kess
Something's wrong.
I've felt it all morning—a restlessness beneath my skin that won't settle, an itch I can't scratch. I blamed it on too little sleep, on the dreams that keep waking me in the dark hours. Dreams of golden eyes and blood in my mouth and a knot swelling inside me until I can't breathe.
But it's not the dreams.
Carter and I have been sparring for an hour, and I can't focus. My timing is off, my strikes sloppy. Twice now he's landed hits that should never have gotten through my guard.
"You okay?" He lowers his practice sword, frowning. "You seem distracted."
"Fine." I reset my stance, rolling my shoulders to loosen them. "Again."
But I'm not fine.
The armory feels too warm. The wool of my training leathers itches against my skin. Every sound is too loud—the scrape of boots on stone, the distant clang of the smithy, Carter's breathing. And underneath it all, a low hum in my blood that I'm trying very hard not to recognize.
It's too soon.
My last heat was five weeks ago. Heats are supposed to come every three or four months, not every five weeks. The bond is doing something to my cycle, speeding it up, pulling my body toward his on a schedule that has nothing to do with normal omega biology.
I should have paid more attention. Should have tracked the signs—the heightened senses, the restless nights, the way my skin has felt too tight for the past two days. Should have locked myself in my chambers this morning instead of coming to train.
