That’s where I see my eyes.

I freeze, because this is new. Or maybe, in all the fever attacks so far, I never looked at my face in a mirror. My pupils have shrunk to pinpricks. It’s like my irises are eggs, and someone punctured them open with a needle. The dark brown spills out, filling the white like a puddle of something viscous that could almost be blood—

“Serena.”

I turn around. My heart sinks.

Koen is wearing yesterday’s clothes and must have just returned. He inhales deeply, staring at my nearly naked body, focusing on the fat drops of sweat rolling between my breasts. The hot flush that blankets my skin. My eyes, still leaking into themselves.

“I’m sorry.” I’m hoarse. Weak. I force myself to take a deep breath, because I need to— cold water. Can’t deal with him now. I hug myself tight, forgetting about my own sharp claws, ignoring the way they pierce the skin of my ribs. “It’s b- better if you leave.”

His eyes are shadowed. He takes a step forward, bringing inside a tidal wave of his scent that’s safe and clean and healthy and—

Oh my God. Sex. It’s so delicious, so indecent, so fundamentally erotic, I want it even more than the cold water. Which I need to survive.

“Please, Koen. I need you to leave.”

“Where does it hurt?” He comes closer, clearly unaware that I’m scary and unpredictable. His heat should bother me, but by some miracle of biology it doesn’t add to the fever. “And how bad?”

“It’s fine. I just need to— ” I can’t bear his gaze on me. I turn away and spot my eyes in the mirror once again. They’re even worse than before, swallowed by a rising tide of dark green, and . . . “Oh my God,” I whisper, reaching up to touch them, but Koen traps both my wrists against the small of my back. He slides his other arm around my chest, plastering me to him.

“Your claws are out, and you’re already bleeding. You need to stay still.”

“My eyes— ”

“It’s okay.”

“But they— ”

“Serena.” That Alpha voice. “Calm down.”

I do. For about a second. Then panic rises, higher, stronger. “That’s not normal.”

“Stop looking at them. Deep breaths.”

“I can’t. What is happening?”

“Don’t look at them.”

Tears slide down my face. I’m about to explode. “But why are they— ”

Koen’s fist darts out to punch the mirror, shattering my reflection into a thousand small shards. “Here. Now they’re not doing that anymore.” His palm rests against my forehead. “You’re burning up. This is not the first time, is it?”

Yes. No. I don’t know.

“Answer me.”

“N- no.”

“Good girl. Is it a fever?”

I nod, and the simple gesture makes me dizzy. I sink into Koen’s body even more. There is no way to describe the fabric of his clothes other than offensive. I need them off.

“Cold baths work to bring it down?”

“Yes.”

He glances at the almost-full tub. A second later I’m submerged in water. Distantly, I register some surprise. Because Koen gets in with me, clothes and all, and pulls me between his spread legs.

The sudden icy cold feels like unicorns and kittens building a pillow fort on a pink cloud, then snacking on a tub of frosting. “Better?” Koen asks.

I nod. The soft weight of his lips presses against my temple.

“Anything else you do?”

I shake my head. Open my mouth to tell Koen that in a second the shock will knock me out, and I’ll wake up shivering in a couple of hours. That he should let go of me. That people in my condition can harm those around them. But one of his hands splays wide on my abdomen, and the other curves around my inner thigh, and even though this might be the most shameful moment of my entire life, I’m too tired and comfortable to do anything but fall asleep.

CHAPTER 21

No.

IWAKE UP TO THE MOST BEAUTIFUL PIANO MUSIC I’VE EVER heard.

Not that it means much, given my pathological inability to listen to anything without a techno beat, but this . . . it’s spectacular. Vaguely familiar. Probably classical. Elegant but intimate. Being awakened by any sort of loud noise is down there with eating paint chips in my list of favorite things, but this is so gentle and understated, I want to make it my forever alarm.

My eyes flutter open of their own volition, and I realize that I’m in Koen’s bedroom, again. Stealing his bed, again. Unable to recall how I ended up here, again. My last memories are blurred. Working on a letter. Yawning till my eyes were a constant stream of tears. Sliding under the covers. I must have slept in, judging from the early afternoon light filtering inside.

Which explains the wake- up call.

Koen sits on the piano stool, his back a bare expanse interrupted only by the waistband of his jeans. He is, at once, relaxed and in movement, muscles shifting occasionally, always in time with the music. What would it be like, to feel them vibrate against my cheek, or the flesh of my palm?

Sitting up is difficult, because my limbs are pulled pork. “Is this . . . ?”

“Still not Bach, killer.” His long fingers don’t miss a single key.

I really need to broaden my operatic horizons. “How did your meeting with the huddle leaders go?”

Koen feels distant, which surprises me after our hug yesterday, on the porch. He’s not the type for mood swings— his mood tends to be consistently shitty. Am I missing something? “They all acknowledge the threat, and we’re all on the same page. Which is more than I can say about the first time this happened.” One last, oddly strident note, and he turns to face me directly. He leans forward, elbows on his spread thighs. His eyes bore, debone me, until I can’t help fidgeting.

“Is anything . . .” I run a hand through my hair. “Are you— ”

Why is my hair wet?

What is this T- shirt that I’m wearing?

And the claw marks on my forearms—

Last night’s events hit me like a sledgehammer. Fuck.

Fuck.

I pull back the covers, intending to run for the bathroom mirror, but my quads are incapable of supporting me, and I fall back into the mattress. “My eyes— ”

“Are as usual,” he replies calmly.

I rub my face. Shit. That was bad. That was so bad—

“How long have you been feeling poorly?” Koen asks, rudely interrupting my panic tailspin.

I can tell with a millisecond-long glance that he’s willing to slow roast the truth out of me. But what kind of veteran liar would I even be if I didn’t attempt a weak “I’m not. It was just— ”

“Serena.” He looks at me like I’m not just insulting his intelligence, but also lowering the IQ of the entire pack.

Okay. Fine. No games. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know.”

“Four months. Twelve years.”

His eyes harden. “What a helpfully narrow interval.”

“I really don’t know. None of this is normal, Koen. None of this is not terrible, and— ” I stop. Take a deep breath, letting the soothing scents of Koen and tea spread through my lungs. There is a steaming mug on the nightstand, and after a few sips I no longer feel like blurting my entire miserable story out to him. Progress. “The fevers began four or five months ago. But Dr. Henshaw says that this is a degenerative condition that starts before symptoms manifest.” Koen stares at me like I’m wasting his time by not telling him everything that happened in the last decade of my life, so I continue. “It’s a Were disorder that has no equivalent among Humans. Relatively common among Weres in their ninth or tenth decade, but not unheard of in younger patients. It’s called CSD, which stands for— ”

“Cortisol surge disorder.”

“You’re familiar. Good.” His look tells me that nothing about this is in any realm adjacent to good. I avert my gaze. “The fevers are caused by . . . Basically, chronic stress fucked up my inflammatory and anti-inflammatory signals. Again, not uncommon.”