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 pale 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.

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.”

She’s been listening at bathroom doors, my wolf growls. Creepy stalker behavior.

“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 pale 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.”

But I’m not fine, and we both know it.

I press my palm against my churning stomach, feeling the flutter of something I cannot name, and wonder what secrets my own body is keeping from me.