The zinc walls of the Healer's shack are vibrating, or perhaps it is simply the rhythm of my own frantic, shallow breathing against the humid air. The heat is no longer just a physical presence in the room; it is a weight, pressing down on my chest until every lungful of air feels like I am inhaling liquid fire. My body feels like a porcelain cup that has been filled with molten lead, a house being dismantled from the inside out by the very mark meant to protect me. Mace is a constant shadow beside the bed, a tether of pine and grass scent that keeps me from drifting entirely into the dark abyss that is calling my name. His hand is warm against my forehead, but even the strength of a powerful Alpha cannot dampen the screaming agony of the rejection-sickness tearing through my human veins.
