“You look absolutely green today, cousin,” Sarah observes with false concern, her floral perfume hitting my nostrils in the hallway.

The cloying gardenia mixed with synthetic musk triggers an immediate revolt in my stomach. I gag so violently she actually steps backward, her perfectly painted lips curling with disgust.

“I’m perfectly fine,” I manage through gritted teeth while bile scorches the back of my throat.

The nausea arrives constantly now, not just mornings but every waking hour. Waves crash through me at random, saliva flooding my mouth in warning. Certain smells have become my enemies overnight, and Sarah’s perfume ranks among the worst offenders.

She watches me struggle with undisguised satisfaction before continuing down the corridor, her heels clicking against stone like a metronome counting down to something I cannot name.

Stress. This is just stress manifesting physically again.

My first shift probably disrupted systems already struggling to function. The eating disorder I have been developing cannot be helping either. My body is simply giving up after years of accumulated abuse.

I make my way toward the kitchen, desperate for water to settle my churning stomach. The coffee brewing assaults me before I even cross the threshold, bitter and burnt and unbearable. Meat cooking somewhere nearby releases its iron tang of blood and fatty sizzle into the air.

My stomach lurches violently, and I barely make it to the garden before heaving into the bushes.

Elena finds me there that afternoon, autumn wind carrying woodsmoke and dying leaves across the grounds. Concern etches deep into her weathered face as she approaches.

“I’d like to examine you again, Morgan,” she says gently, her gray hair escaping its practical bun. “Your color worries me considerably.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing serious,” I protest weakly against her suggestion, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

“Let me be the judge of that, dear.” She takes my arm with firm gentleness, her fingers cool against my clammy skin. “Come now.”

“Is this really necessary right now?” I ask, reluctantly allowing her to guide me toward the medical wing.

“I think it’s very necessary, yes.” Her tone leaves no room for argument. “You’ve lost more weight since last week.”

“I’ve been eating when I can manage,” I lie, knowing she sees through me.

“Eating and keeping food down are different things entirely,” she counters pointedly.

Her examination room hits me with lavender and antiseptic, the chemical sharpness cutting through herbal sweetness. My stomach clenches in warning as she gestures toward the table.

“Sit here please,” Elena instructs, patting the examination table.

The paper covering crinkles beneath my weight as I settle onto the cold surface. The clock on the wall ticks too loudly in the silence.

“What exactly are you looking for?” I ask nervously.

“Answers to questions your body is asking.” She presses the cold stethoscope against my chest, metal biting through thin fabric. “Deep breath.”

I comply while she listens, her brow furrowing with professional concentration. The fluorescent light buzzes overhead, adding to the clinical atmosphere that makes my skin crawl.

“Your heart rate is elevated,” she notes quietly, removing the instrument. “Are you feeling anxious right now?”

“A little bit, I suppose,” I admit honestly.

“That’s understandable given recent circumstances.” She sets down the stethoscope with a soft click and reaches for a folder on her desk. “Your hormone levels came back unusual from our last visit. Have you been taking anything lately?”

“What do you mean by unusual exactly?” I ask, confusion threading through exhaustion.

“Your progesterone is elevated significantly beyond normal ranges,” she explains carefully, studying the papers that rustle between her fingers. “Any supplements or medications?”

“Just the vitamins you gave me last week,” I answer.

“Nothing else at all?” she presses with gentle insistence.

“Nothing, I promise you that completely.” I shift on the crackling paper, uncomfortable under her scrutiny.

Elena sets down her papers and meets my eyes with measured professionalism. Something in her expression makes my pulse quicken.

“And your cycle, Morgan?” Her voice stays neutral. “When was your last period?”

The question lands with unexpected force, stealing breath from my lungs. I try to count backward through fog, but the chaos of recent weeks has blurred everything together.

“I don’t…” I pause, struggling to remember. “I’m not entirely sure, honestly.”

“Can you estimate at all?” she asks gently.

Unusual hormone levels. When was your last period?

My wolf emerges with sardonic amusement dripping from every syllable inside my skull.

Go away, I beg silently, forehead pressed against cool porcelain that smells faintly of cleaning chemicals.

‘Not a chance, sweetheart.’ She stretches with infuriating comfort. ‘You’ve been ignoring obvious signs for weeks now.’

I don’t know what you mean, I argue weakly.

‘The constant nausea that isn’t stress?’ She mocks me openly. ‘The exhaustion sleep can’t touch at all?’

Those could be anything, I counter desperately.

‘Sure they could be, genius.’ Her laughter echoes painfully through my aching head. ‘Keep lying to yourself.’

I drag myself upright on shaking legs, gripping the sink’s cold edge for support. The mirror reflects a stranger with hollow eyes and sunken cheeks.

When was your last period?

I tear through my bathroom cabinet with frantic hands, searching for tampons I always keep stocked. The familiar pink box sits there untouched.

Full. Completely full since I arrived at Blood Ridge.

‘Interesting,’ my wolf observes smugly.

Shut up, I snap through mounting panic.

My eyes find the calendar on my wall, dates marked with X’s in fading blue ink. I count backward with trembling fingers, my heart pounding harder with each week I eliminate.

Eight weeks. Nearly eight weeks late, and I never even noticed through the chaos consuming everything.

The realization crashes over me in devastating waves that steal my breath and buckle my knees. Paul during his rut, his hands on my body, his teeth at my throat. Zane in the garden, tender and desperate, making promises neither of us could keep.

‘Bingo!’ My wolf’s voice rings with undisguised glee. ‘Finally, the penny drops at last!’