That's not how heats work. They don't just... stop.
I think about the way it came on—sudden, violent, no warning, my body betraying me mid-strike. The way it peaked so fast I could barely think, could barely do anything but fight him and fuck him and bite chunks from his throat. The way it's gone now, completely, like someone snuffed out a candle between their fingers.
A flash heat. I've heard whispers about them—rare, unpredictable, tied to magic or curses or bonds gone wrong. But I've never experienced one, never heard of anyone experiencing one outside of old stories told around winter fires.
What the hell is happening to me?
The ruined door scrapes against stone, and I grab for the nearest weapon—a practice sword, instinct overriding thought—before I register who's stepping through the splintered frame.
Rhystan.
He's carrying a tray laden with water, bread, dried meat, a bowl of something that steams gently in the cool morning air. His shirt is fresh—he must have gone back to his chambers at some point—but there are still scratches visible on his forearms, angry red lines that I remember making with my nails while he drove into me against the weapon rack.
He stops when he sees me sitting up, sword in hand, and something flickers across his face that might be relief or might be wariness.
"It's just me." His voice is rough, careful in a way that makes me want to snap at him. "I brought food."
I lower the sword but don't let go of it. "You left."
"You were sleeping." He sets the tray down on a weapons crate, his movements deliberate and slow, like he's trying not to spook a wild animal. "I didn't want to wake you. Wasn't sure if you'd want me here when you woke up."
There's a question buried in that statement, something vulnerable underneath the careful neutrality. I'm not sure how to answer it, not sure what I want the answer to be.
"The heat's gone," I say instead.
His jaw tightens, a muscle jumping beneath the stubble. "I noticed."
"That's not normal."
"No." He's watching me with those golden eyes, and I can see the worry he's trying to hide beneath the mask of calm, the fear he doesn't want me to see. "It's not."
Silence stretches between us, heavy with everything we're not saying. The ruined door hangs crooked on one hinge, a testament to what he did to get to me. Somewhere in the castle, a bell chimes the hour.
"Do you know what's happening?" I ask. "To me?"
He's quiet for a long moment, long enough that I think he's not going to answer, that he's going to deflect or change the subject or find some way to avoid the truth.
"I have theories," he says finally. "Nothing certain."
"Tell me."
"Kess—"
"Tell me."
His hand comes up to rub the back of his neck—a strangely human gesture from someone so inhuman, and it makes something twist in my chest to see it. "Flash heats are rare. They happen sometimes with new bonds, when the connection is still settling. Or when..." He stops, and I watch him weigh his words, watch him decide how much truth to give me.
"When what?"
"When something is changing." He meets my eyes, and there's a rawness there I wasn't expecting. "In one or both partners."
The words hang in the air between us like smoke. I think about the scars on my hips, the way they've been hardening. The ache in my nail beds that's been getting worse. The speed that's been building in my limbs for weeks, the reflexes that surprise even me.
He knows. He has to know.
But he's not saying it, not naming the thing that's happening to me. And I'm not ready to ask, not ready to hear him confirm what I've been suspecting.
"Eat something," he says quietly, and the gentleness in his voice makes me want to throw the practice sword at his head. "You need to recover your strength."
