Chapter 26
Chapter 26
Nyra
It starts as a flicker behind my eyes. A tension, a tightness. Not quite pain—just pressure. The kind that makes the skin of your forehead feel too tight, like your skull’s growing faster than your face. I blink, rub my temples, blame it on the recycled air and another bad night of sleep. But by the time I’m halfway through my morning routine, it’s more than that. I move slowly, deliberately, careful not to brush against anything too hard or too sudden. My limbs feel tender—like bruises without bruising. Every motion sends a ripple under my skin, a soreness that flinches from the inside out.
I dress in silence. No music. No news feed. Just the pounding of my pulse and the faint, rising buzz under my skin. I’m hot. Not just flushed—but burning. I check my temperature with a shaky palm to my forehead. Clammy. Damp. But no sweat. The kind of heat that doesn’t escape. I sit at the edge of the bed, breathing through my mouth. My neck itches. My inner thighs ache. And underneath it all, there’s a throb I don’t want to name. A kindling. Small. Persistent. I shake my head, stand—then immediately sink back down. The motion sends a wave of vertigo through me so intense I nearly throw up. My whole body pulses once—sharp and low, centered in my pelvis—and I gasp. Not arousal. Not really. But something near it. A hunger. A need. A wrongness. I try to stand again, slower this time, and force myself toward the mirror. My reflection looks pale, sweaty. My pupils are blown wide, swallowing the color of my eyes. My lips are parted like I’ve just been kissed too hard.
“I’m sick,” I whisper aloud. “That’s all. I’m just sick.”
I try to convince myself. But no fever’s ever made me feel like this before. I call in. Say I’m unwell. They don’t question it—people break down all the time here, and it’s not like I’ve ever missed a shift. I spend the next hour in bed, shivering and sweating in turns, pressing cold water bottles to my neck and thighs. Nothing helps. The heat isn’t just on my skin—it’s in me.
Curling. Expanding.
Beneath the discomfort, a thread of something darker coils: you know what this feels like.
But I don't. I can’t.
I’m human.
By afternoon, my sheets are a mess—kicked to the floor, twisted and damp. I can’t stay still. Every position becomes unbearable after minutes. My skin feels raw—not to the touch, but from the inside. Like nerves exposed and vibrating, one layer too deep. I try cold showers. I try ice packs. I even lie flat on the floor, hoping the chill of it might soak through and numb me. It doesn’t. Every breath drags heat deeper into my lungs. Every movement sends sparks under my skin. I press my thighs together until they cramp. Clench and unclench my fists. Stretch. Curl.
Nothing helps.
And still—there’s that same low pulse, tucked deep in my core, taunting me. Not desire exactly. Not in the way I’ve felt it before. It’s hunger. A different kind. Older. Animal.
Heat.
But it can’t be. It can’t be.
I’m not a wolf.
Still, I can’t stop the way my body reacts to the thought. I find myself thinking about him. Not just his voice. Or his scent. Or the way he said my name. But what he is. What I know he is, even if I’ve never seen it. Power barely restrained. Rage that doesn’t need words. The way the air felt thick when he was on the other side of the door. The pressure in my lungs. The pull in my belly. I remember the first time I went to him—how his presence felt like gravity. Now it feels like fire. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to calm my breathing. I tell myself I’m just overwhelmed. That it’s from everything I’ve witnessed. That I’m not... changing. I’m not in anything. I’m not part of them. I lie back and stare at the ceiling, one hand pressed to my stomach. The other resting lower.
Not to touch.
Not yet.
Just to feel if it’s real.
The ache. The burn. The pulse of something that isn’t mine but won’t let go.
At some point, I catch myself staring at the door. Not thinking. Not planning. Just... looking. Like it might open on its own. Like if I moved fast enough, quiet enough, I could reach Sublevel 3 before anyone noticed. I could see him. The thought lands so hard it steals my breath. I don’t even remember walking to the door. But I’m there—barefoot, sweat-slicked, half-bent from the ache—and my hand is on the handle. That scares me more than the heat. Because this isn’t reason. It isn’t longing. It’s pull. Like a thread buried beneath my ribs has gone taut. And he’s on the other end of it. I shove myself back and grab the closest chair. Drag it against the floor. Jam it under the knob.
Then the desk.
A bin.
My bag.
It’s pathetic, really. Nothing that would hold against real effort. But I’m not worried about strength. I’m worried I’ll open it myself. That I’ll choose it. Just for one second of relief. One second of closeness. And I wouldn’t even reach him. I wouldn’t make it past security. Wouldn’t get past the cage. Wouldn’t matter. But I’d try. God help me, I’d try.
So I sit in front of the barricaded door, knees pulled to my chest, and wait for the feeling to pass.
It doesn’t.
But I do.
For now.