That evening, Paul corners me in the library before I can escape upstairs. The musty scent of old books mingles with his cedar cologne, creating a cocktail that makes my head spin.
"You've been avoiding me for days now," he says quietly, blocking the doorway with his broad shoulders.
"I've been busy with my duties around here." The excuse sounds weak even to my own ears, paper-thin and tearing at the edges.
"You've been hiding from this conversation." He steps closer, floorboards groaning beneath his weight.
My back presses against the bookshelf, leather spines digging into my shoulder blades as I run out of room to retreat.
"What conversation would that be exactly?" I ask, finally meeting his ice-blue eyes where lamplight catches the gold flecks hidden in the gray.
"You know what conversation, Morgan." His jaw tightens, a muscle twitching in his cheek.
He's giving you an opening, my wolf observes. Take it or leave it.
"I can't do this tonight." Exhaustion crashes through me, dragging at my limbs. "I'm too tired to fight."
His expression shifts from frustration to genuine concern as he studies my face, reading something there that makes his breath catch.
"You're pale as a ghost," he says softly, reaching toward my cheek. "When did you last sleep properly?"
His fingers hover inches from my skin, close enough that I feel the heat radiating from them like standing near an open flame.
"I don't remember anymore," I admit before I can stop myself.
His hand drops without touching me, and the distance feels intentional, a choice that leaves the space between us cold and aching.
"Something is wrong with you, Morgan." The words carry weight I'm not ready to examine.
"I'm fine," I insist for the hundredth time this week, the lie so familiar now it barely tastes like anything at all. "Just adjusting to everything."
"Stop." The single word cuts through my deflection like a blade through silk. "Stop saying you're fine when you're clearly not."
The rawness in his voice makes my chest ache.
"Paul—"
"I've been worried sick about you." He runs a hand through his dark hair, the gesture sharp with frustration. "I still am."
The lamplight flickers, casting shadows across his face that make him look older. Wearier. Like the weight of everything unsaid between us has been crushing him too.
"The transformation was hard on my system," I try again, grasping for any explanation that doesn't require examining the fears lurking in the darker corners of my mind. "Elena said some wolves take longer to adjust than others."
"Elena also said adjustment doesn't usually involve losing this much weight." He steps closer. "Or the color draining from your face. Or flinching at smells that never bothered you before."
'He notices everything,' my wolf murmurs. 'Observant bastard.'
'Not helpful right now.'
"I don't know what you want me to say." I wrap my arms around myself, creating a barrier between us. "My body's been through a lot of changes lately."
"I want you to tell me the truth." He steps closer still, eliminating the distance I've been trying to maintain. "I want you to stop deflecting every time I try to reach you. I want you to trust me enough to admit that something is breaking you from the inside out."
'Tell him about Sarah,' my wolf suggests. 'Give him something real.'
It's not the whole truth—not even close—but it's a door I can open without revealing everything I'm hiding from myself.
"Sarah's been... watching me." The words come out rougher than intended. "More than usual. She tracks my movements."
His expression darkens instantly, a storm rolling across his features. "She's harassing you?"
"She's being Sarah." I shrug, but the motion feels brittle. "Reminding me of my place. Making sure I know she's paying attention."
"What exactly has she said to you?"
I hesitate, remembering her cold smile, her probing questions, the way her eyes gleamed when she noted my visible flinch at the mention of vomiting.
"She thinks I'm sick. Keeps suggesting I see Elena for a 'proper diagnosis.'" I attempt a dismissive laugh that comes out hollow. "You know how she loves finding weaknesses to exploit."
"And are you?" His hand reaches for me, and this time he doesn't stop. His palm cups my jaw with devastating gentleness, tilting my face up toward the lamplight. "Sick?"
"I told you. It's just the transformation—"
"Morgan." My name in his mouth is a plea. "I'm not asking what excuse you've rehearsed. I'm asking what you actually believe is happening to your body."
The question cuts too close to thoughts I've been refusing to examine.
My stomach churns with fresh nausea—stress, it's just stress, it has to be stress—and I pull away from his touch before the warmth of his palm can weaken my resolve.
"I don't know what's happening to me," I admit, and the honesty of it scrapes my throat raw. "I don't understand why I can't keep food down. I don't understand why certain smells make me gag. I don't understand why I'm exhausted no matter how much I sleep."
'Maybe you should think harder about what those symptoms mean,' my wolf says quietly.
'Shut up.'
'I'm just saying—'
'I said shut up.'
Paul's expression shifts from frustration to something softer, something that looks dangerously close to tenderness.
"Have you told Elena any of this?"
"She knows I've been having trouble adjusting."
"That's not what I asked." He reaches for me again, both hands framing my face now. "Have you told her the specifics? The nausea? The exhaustion? The sensitivity to smells?"
I shake my head, not trusting my voice.
"Why not?"
Because I'm afraid of what she might find. Because putting a name to whatever is wrong with me makes it real. Because some answers are easier to avoid than face.
"Because I keep hoping it will pass on its own," I whisper instead.
His thumbs stroke across my cheekbones, touch feather-light against skin that feels too thin, too fragile to contain everything roiling beneath the surface.
"What if it doesn't pass?" The question is gentle, but it lands like a blow. "What if ignoring it makes it worse?"
"Then I'll deal with it when I have to."
"Morgan." His forehead drops to rest against mine, breath warm against my lips. "You don't have to deal with anything alone. You know that, right? Whatever's happening—whatever you're afraid to face—I'm here."
The sincerity in his voice nearly breaks me.
'He means it,' my wolf says softly. 'He'd walk through fire for you.'
'That's what I'm afraid of.'
"I'm not ready to face anything tonight," I breathe, and it's the most honest thing I've said in weeks. "I just need... time. Space. Room to figure out what's happening to me before I drag anyone else into the mess."
"You're not a mess."
"You haven't been living inside my head lately."
A ghost of a smile crosses his face, there and gone. "No. But I've been watching you from the outside. And what I see is a woman fighting battles she refuses to let anyone help her win."
He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, searching my face for something I'm not sure I can give him.
"Promise me something."
"That depends on what it is."
"Promise me that if this gets worse—if whatever's happening to your body doesn't resolve on its own—you'll see Elena."
The request is everything I should want from someone who claims to care about me.
So why does it terrify me so completely?
"I promise," I hear myself say, and pray it's not a lie I'll come to regret.
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