It starts wrong, not dramatic or sudden, but off in a way my body recognises before my mind wants to, because the heat under my skin is not the good kind that comes from exertion or sun, but a creeping burn that sits too deep and spreads too fast. I am halfway through tying my hair back when the room tilts just enough that I have to steady myself against the table, my pulse thudding loud in my ears.
“No,” I murmur, because denial has always been my first instinct, and because the bond hums sharply in response, a sudden spike of awareness that feels alarmed rather than curious.
My skin feels tight, oversensitive, like every nerve has been turned up a notch without my permission, and when I swallow, my throat feels dry despite the water I drank not ten minutes ago. I straighten slowly, bre
