I take another sip of tea, and all of a sudden, my eyelids feel heavy. The herbs are working faster than I expected, pulling me toward sleep with surprising insistence. My limbs grow pleasantly warm and loose.
Yawning, I set the empty cup on the windowsill with clumsy fingers and move back to my bed. The sheets feel impossibly soft now, welcoming as I slide between them.
My thoughts drift, growing hazy and disconnected. Images of Kieran fill my mind—the way he looked when I saw him naked that day, water streaming down his chest and stomach. I keep wanting to touch him, to feel those muscles beneath my palms. I want his hands around my waist, pulling me close.
My whole body grows warm at the thought. I remember the size of him, all of him, and a sleepy murmur escapes my lips.
“It will never fit,” I mumble into my pillow, already half asleep. “Too big…”
The image should alarm me. Instead, it follows me into my dreams.
I’m walkingdown a mountain path, a basket swinging by my side. It’s filled with berries—deep purple and red, their juices staining the woven bottom. I’m wearing something soft and flowing, not a dress but a robe of some kind. The fabric whispers against my legs as I move.
This isn’t right. I don’t remember leaving my room. When did I come here?
The thought floats away like smoke before I can grasp it.
My mouth feels parched. So thirsty. I stop by a stream, kneeling on the mossy bank to cup water in my hands.
The woman whose reflection looks back at me is different.
Blonde hair. Brown eyes. Flowers woven through golden strands. She looks so young, hardly more than a girl.
I jerk back from the water. That’s not my face. That’s not—
But when I look down at my hands, they’re smaller. Delicate. Not the calloused hands of a warrior.
What’s happening?
I try to speak, to scream, but my mouth doesn’t move. My body stands, brushing off the robe with hands that aren’t mine.
A dream. This has to be a dream.
But it feels too real. The sun on my skin, the scent of pine and wildflowers, the ache in my feet from walking. Everything is vivid, sharp, present.
A rustling sound breaks through the peaceful quiet. My body moves to investigate without my permission, feet carrying me toward the noise.
No. Stop. I don’t want to go there.
But I can’t control this body. I’m trapped inside someone else’s skin, watching through someone else’s eyes.
There’s a large wolf lying on the ground, injured. Dark fur matted with blood. Silver threading through the darkness in patterns I recognize.
Kieran.
Terror slams through me—real, visceral terror that cuts through the dreamlike haze. The gashes across his flank are deep, exposing muscle and bone. His breathing is labored, shallow. He’s dying.
The woman—whoever she is—doesn’t seem to recognize him. She moves closer with concern but no recognition, no panic. Just compassion for an injured animal.
But I know him. I know him and he’s dying and I can’t do anything.
I try to call out, try to scream his name, try to force this body to run to him. Nothing works. I’m a passenger, helpless.
Please. Please let me help him.
My—her—hands reach out toward him, and then—
The world rips apart.
