And I'll deserve it.
21
Kess
Something is wrong with me.
I wake up nauseous for the third morning in a row, my stomach heaving before my eyes are fully open. Roll out of bed and barely make it to the washbasin before bile surges up my throat—nothing substantial, just the sour remnants of yesterday's dinner and the lingering aftertaste of last night's tea.
The tea Rhystan brings me every evening. The blend that's supposed to help with the transformation.
I rinse my mouth and splash cold water on my face, then force myself to look in the mirror.
Dark circles bruise the skin beneath my eyes. My skin has gone pale, washed out, all the healthy color leached away. My hair is wild even by my standards—tangled and dull, refusing to cooperate with braids. I've lost weight everywhere except—I turn sideways, examining my profile—is my stomach slightly fuller? Rounder? Hard to tell. Could just be bloating.
"Kess?" Rhystan's voice comes through the door, tight with concern. "Are you all right? I heard you get sick."
Of course he did. Dragon hearing. He's been hovering since his rut ended—watching me constantly, appearing at odd hours, bringing food I don't want and tea I force myself to drink.
"I'm fine," I call back. "Just—stomach thing. It'll pass."
"May I come in?"
I pull on a robe and open the door.
He looks nearly as wrecked as I feel. Shadows carved deep beneath his golden eyes, hair disheveled, still wearing yesterday's clothes. But even exhausted and rumpled, something in me responds to the sight of him—the breadth of his shoulders filling the doorway, the way his gaze tracks over me like he's cataloging every detail.
"You look terrible," I observe.
"So do you." But there's no criticism in his voice, only concern that borders on fear. He reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering on my jaw. "How long have you been getting sick like this?"
"Few days. Maybe a week?" I lean into his touch without meaning to. "It's just nausea. Comes and goes. Mostly in the mornings."
Something flickers across his face—guilt, fear, recognition—gone before I can identify it.
"I'll bring the mystic. Have her examine you again?—"
"No." I'm tired of being examined, poked and prodded and told my transformation is progressing correctly. "It's just a bug. I'll be fine."
"Kess—"
"I said I'm fine." The words come out sharper than I intended. "Stop hovering. Stop treating me like I'm made of glass."
He's quiet for a long moment, something wounded flickering behind his eyes.
"I'm sorry," he says finally. "I just worry about you."
The sincerity in his voice makes my chest ache.
"I know." I reach for his hand. "But you need to trust that I'll tell you if something's seriously wrong."
He squeezes my fingers, and I feel the bond pulse between us—weaker than it should be, muted like a song heard through thick walls.
"Promise you'll tell me if it gets worse?"
"Promise."
The nausea continues.
