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.
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.”
“CSD can be treated.”
“Yeah. In Weres, it can. Sometimes. But my hybrid biology hasn’t been responding to meds. My hormonal levels are getting worse, and Dr. Henshaw said . . .” I suck my teeth. “Not compatible with life. That’s how he put it.”
Koen’s eyelids are the only moving parts of his body. They flutter closed, then open again as he asks calmly, “How long?”
“Six months at the most. But that was . . . two months ago.”
“I see.” He seems bizarrely unperturbed. An Alpha trait, maybe: set aside emotions, absorb information. I’m sure it’s useful in a crisis, but his cold grilling is somewhat disturbing. “What treatments did he attempt?”
“All of them. He involved his colleagues, and . . . believe me when I say, no stone was left unturned. But the side effects were bad, and my deterioration was steady. Linear, originally, then exponential.”
“Is it still? Getting worse?”
After a beat, I nod. “The fevers are almost nightly. And the eye thing, the claws . . . those are new. I don’t know what that was.”
“Arms and eyes are where the shift to wolf form starts,” he explains. “Their motor proteins activate first.”
“Really? Is that the reason . . . ?”
“Maybe your fever triggers the shift, but your body cannot see it through. Or vice versa. I don’t know. I barely ever took a science class.”
“Really?” I tilt my head. “Why?”
“Because I was too busy protecting my pack from a coup to finish high school. Does the Vampyre know?”
“Misery? No. When I started seeing Dr. Henshaw, I told her some bullshit about having headaches, and- “
Koen snorts.
“What?”
“Just shocked the Vampyre still trusts your lies, is all.”
I frown. “Every lie I’ve told Misery was to protect her from- “
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