Instead I close my eyes and let exhaustion pull me under.
We can figure out the rest later.
For now, this is enough.
17
Kess
I waketo the unfamiliar sensation of warmth pressed against my back.
For a moment I don't move, just lie there cataloging the feeling—his arm draped heavy over my waist, his breath stirring the hair at the nape of my neck, the furnace heat of his chest against my spine. We're still tangled in sheets that smell like sex and sweat and something smoky underneath that I'm starting to recognize as us.
He's awake. I can tell by the rhythm of his breathing, the slight tension in the arm around me. Waiting to see what I'll do.
"You stayed," I say, my voice rough with sleep.
"You asked me to." His lips brush my shoulder when he speaks. "Do you want me to go?"
I consider the question. Part of me—the wild part, the part that's spent years surviving alone—wants to say yes. Wants space to process what happened last night, what's been happening between us for weeks. Wants to retreat into solitude and figure out what any of this means.
But a larger part doesn't want him to move.
"No," I say. "Stay."
His arm tightens around me, pulling me closer, and something in my chest eases at the contact. He presses a kiss to the back of my neck—soft, unhurried, just his lips warm against my skin. I let my eyes drift closed and sink into the feeling of being held.
This is new. All of it. The gentleness, the morning-after, the choice to stay instead of retreat. I don't know what to do with it yet, but I'm learning.
The bond hums between us—but wrong, somehow. Quieter than it should be after a night like last night. I've noticed it growing fainter over the past weeks, like hearing music through a wall, and I keep meaning to ask him about it. Keep getting distracted by other things.
My stomach lurches suddenly, nausea rising without warning.
I'm out of bed and across the room before I can think, barely making it to the chamber pot in the corner before I'm retching. Nothing comes up—I'm empty, haven't eaten since yesterday morning—but my body heaves anyway, trying to expel something that isn't there.
"Kess—" He's behind me, one hand gathering my hair back from my face, the other warm and steady on my shoulder. "Are you alright?"
"Fine." I spit, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. "It passes. The contamination's doing something to my stomach—nausea in the mornings, then starving by afternoon."
The pattern's been consistent for over a week now. Sick when I wake, ravenous by midday, exhausted by evening. My body adjusting to whatever changes his blood is making, metabolizing the transformation one miserable symptom at a time.
He's quiet for a moment too long. When I look up, there's something in his expression I can't read—concern, yes, butsomething else underneath. Something that looks almost like guilt.
"What?" I ask.
"Nothing." He helps me to my feet, hands gentle. "You should eat something. It might help settle your stomach."
"Food is the last thing I want right now." I cross to the water basin and splash my face, letting the cold shock some clarity into my foggy head. "What I want is to hit something."
"Hit something?"
"Sparring." I turn to face him, and something sparks to life in my chest at the idea. "Train with me. Not watching from the balcony—actually train. I want to see what you can do."
He goes still, that dragon stillness that means I've surprised him. "You want to spar. With me."
"Why not? Scared I'll beat you?"
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth—small, almost reluctant, but real. "I'm scared I'll hurt you."
