My body has become a stranger wearing my skin.
Three weeks have blurred together since that night beneath the willow tree, and the nausea arrives each morning like clockwork. I kneel on cold tile, forehead pressed against porcelain, waiting for the waves to pass while sweat beads along my hairline.
You're falling apart, and it's honestly embarrassing to watch.
My wolf's voice cuts through my skull with her usual charm.
Can you please be quiet for five minutes?
I've been quiet for twenty-three years. I'm done being quiet now.
She paces restlessly inside my mind, agitated by confinement I don't know how to release. Every attempt to shut her away fails spectacularly, her presence bleeding through the cracks like water through broken stone.
The tenderness in my breasts makes me wince as I pull on my dress, the soft fabric dragging across sensitive skin like fine-grained sandpaper.
That's new, my wolf observes with unwanted interest.
Stress. Everything is just stress.
Brilliant strategy. Starve yourself because the evil cousin called you fat.
I said be quiet.
And I said no.
Paul watches me across the breakfast table with concern I don't deserve. His ice-blue eyes track every movement—the way I push eggs around my plate, the pallor of my cheeks, the shadows bruising the skin beneath my eyes.
"You're not eating." His voice carries across the space between us, low and tight.
The scrape of my fork against china fills the silence that follows. Steam rises from untouched eggs, their sulfur scent making my stomach roll with fresh nausea.
"I'm not hungry this morning," I reply without looking up from my plate.
"You weren't hungry yesterday either." His tone carries an edge that makes my stomach clench harder. "Or the day before that."
"I've been adjusting to the wolf transformation." I manage the words through gritted teeth, tasting the lie on my tongue. "Elena said it takes time for everything to settle properly."
"Elena also said you should be eating more, not less." He sets down his fork with controlled precision, the metallic clink echoing through the dining room.
His knuckles whiten where he grips the table edge, and the wood groans under the pressure of his hands.
Zane appears at my elbow before the silence can stretch further, a plate of pastries balanced in his careful hands. The warmth radiating from his body makes my skin prickle with unwanted awareness.
"Thought you might want breakfast delivered today," he offers with a gentle smile that creases the corners of his eyes.
The sweet aroma of cinnamon and butter wafts up from the plate, normally tempting but now nauseating enough to make saliva flood my mouth in warning.
"Thank you, but I'm really not hungry right now." I push the pastries away despite the hurt that flickers across his features.
"You need to eat eventually, Morgan." Concern threads through his voice like wire pulled too tight.
"Everyone seems very invested in my eating habits lately," I snap, immediately regretting the sharpness when he flinches.
You're a mess, my wolf observes.
Thank you for that insight.
Zane's hand hovers near my shoulder, then drops to his side without making contact. The restraint costs him something—I can see it in the tight line of his jaw, the way his fingers curl into his palm.
"I didn't mean to push," he says quietly. "I just—we're worried about you."
"We?" I glance between him and Paul, whose ice-blue eyes haven't left my face since I sat down.
"Everyone who cares about you." Zane's voice carries weight I'm not ready to examine. "Which is more people than you seem to realize."
The sincerity in his words makes my throat tighten.
I don't deserve his concern. Not after what happened beneath the willow tree. Not after the way I used his gentleness to escape my own confusion.
I push back from the table before the tears threatening behind my eyes can fall. "I have duties to attend to."
Neither brother tries to stop me, but I feel their gazes burning into my back as I flee the dining room like the coward I've become.
Sarah's surveillance intensifies over the following days, her calculating eyes noting every interaction I have with both brothers. She watches me like a predator studying wounded prey, patient and hungry and waiting.
"Careful," she whispers as I pass her in the hallway, shoulder checking me into the wall hard enough to leave a bruise blooming across my hip.
The cold stone bites through my dress, rough against my spine as I catch myself against it.
"Your balance seems off lately, cousin." False sympathy drips from every syllable. "Maybe you're getting clumsy from lack of sleep."
Her perfume—jasmine and something sharp beneath it—clogs my throat until I can barely breathe.
"I'm fine," I manage through clenched teeth.
"Are you though?" Her smile stretches wide, knowing, cruel. "You look absolutely terrible these days."
Her manicured nail traces my cheekbone, the touch leaving invisible scratches that burn long after she withdraws her hand.
"Still eating like a bird, I've noticed." Sarah circles me slowly, her heels clicking against the stone floor. "Or should I say, not eating at all. The kitchen staff keep track of things like that. They report to me, you know."
"I wasn't aware my meals required Luna approval."
"Everything in this pack requires my approval." Her eyes narrow to slits. "Including whatever secret you're working so hard to hide."
My heart stutters against my ribs. "I don't have any secrets."
"Liar." The word slices through the air between us. "You've always been a terrible liar, Morgan. Your face gives everything away."
She leans closer, close enough that I can count the individual lashes framing her cold eyes.
"Something's changed in you. Something you're desperate to keep buried." Her voice drops to a whisper. "And I'm going to find out what it is."
Another morning brings another battle with my rebellious stomach. I emerge from the bathroom pale and shaking, only to find Sarah waiting in the corridor like she's been listening through the door.
The taste of bile still burns my throat, metallic and sour against my raw tongue.
"You look green today," she observes, concern dripping from her voice like poisoned honey. "Almost like you're coming down with a nasty bug."
My legs tremble beneath me, knees threatening to buckle against the hallway's unforgiving floor.
"Just tired from my duties yesterday," I lie, the words scraping past my aching throat.
"I'd hate for you to contaminate the entire pack with whatever illness you're carrying." She examines her nails with theatrical boredom, buffed and gleaming under the fluorescent lights.
"I'm not sick, Sarah."
"The constant vomiting suggests otherwise, cousin." Her eyes gleam with cruel satisfaction at my visible flinch.
She's been listening at bathroom doors, my wolf growls. Creepy stalker behavior.
"Perhaps you should see Elena again." Sarah's voice turns sweet as rotting fruit. "Get a proper diagnosis for whatever's wrong."
"Nothing is wrong with me," I insist with more confidence than I feel, my hands curling into fists at my sides.
"If you say so, Morgan." She pats my cheek with condescending gentleness, her palm cold and dry against my fevered face.
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