5. Caroline
Tea for Restless Nights:
Steep lavender in warm milk. Drink three sips before bed.
Icome back to myself slowly, dragged out of a thick, tangled sleep by something damp and persistent on my cheek. A tiny rasping stroke, then another. When I pry my eyes open, Thistle’s huge yellow stare is inches from my face, whiskers twitching like he’s judging my life choices.
“Okay, okay,” I mumble, trying to bat him away, but my arm is heavy and useless.
The sofa cushion beneath me is warm from my body, my blanket thrown halfway to the floor.
At some point last night I must have left the sofa, stumbled into my bedroom, then wandered to the bathroom and… apparently never made it back to bed.
I lift my head and immediately regret it.
My mouth feels like I tried to eat an entire desert.
My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth.
My skin hums under the thin cotton of my T-shirt, and when the fabric drags against my stomach, a thrill shoots low and hot, like someone struck a match inside me.
“Oh no,” I whisper.
Last night wasn’t a fluke. My body is still singing with something electric. It isn’t heat—at least, not a heat I recognize. Just a restless, hazy buzz that sits under my skin like it’s waiting for something.
Thistle meows, the sound ridiculously accusatory.
“Don’t look at me like that.” My voice cracks. “I had… I don’t know. A magical meltdown. A hormone malfunction. A full-body error.”
He gives a chuff, tail flicking.
I press a hand to my forehead. I’m damp with sweat, even though the house is cold, and the air around me smells faintly of rain and ozone from last night’s storm. My legs feel wobbly when I stand. My T-shirt hangs crooked over one shoulder.
I’m in panties—when did I change? There’s no memory of peeling off my clothes. Just flashes of running through the storm, Damon shouting orders, lightning tearing across the quarry sky.
And Amara’s panicked face.
And my own body buzzing like someone wired me into a live line.
I shuffle toward the bathroom, Thistle trotting after me like he thinks I might fall over. The tiles are freezing. I turn the shower handle, but the low hiss of cold water feels like too much effort. My head swims.
Bath. Cold bath. That’s what I need.
I twist the faucet over to fill the tub instead. The water gushes out, clear and sharp, the kind of cold that feels like it has teeth. My throat is so dry I swear I could swallow the entire bathtub, so I cup my hands under the stream and drink straight from the tap.
“Don’t judge me,” I warn Thistle.
He sits, curling his tail around his paws like a king observing a peasant.
The cold steam rises off the filling tub, brushing my overheated skin.
I breathe in, breathe out. My pulse feels wrong—too fast, too eager for no reason.
My body hums again when I hook my fingers under the hem of my shirt and peel it off.
Then I take off my panties, ignoring the wet patch in the middle.
Goosebumps break out instantly, a mix of chill and something low and needy that I refuse to name.
This is fine. I just need to cool down before I burn through the floorboards.
The water reaches halfway, enough to sink into. I climb in, teeth clenching as the cold wraps around me. Relief hits so deep my vision blurs for a second. The ache in my limbs loosens, the fog in my head thins, and every frantic electric spark under my skin dims just enough for me to breathe again.
“Oh, thank god,” I groan, leaning back against the porcelain. The chill works its way through my overheated muscles, smoothing out the buzzing that’s been making me feel half-feral.
A minute passes. Or five. Or ten. The sound of the faucet is soothing, like rainfall against a window. My eyes drift shut.
Then—
A knock on the bathroom door.
I jolt upright, water sloshing over the rim.
“You in there?” Amara’s voice floats through, rough and sleepy.
“Bath,” I call out, trying not to cough. My throat still feels ruined, like I swallowed smoke.
“Okay,” she says, her words muffled. “Damon’s here to pick me up. He’s dropping me at the manor.”
“Oh.” I clear my throat. “Okay. What time is it?”
It feels like maybe thirty minutes have passed since that explosion of lightning and fire at the quarry, but also like maybe three days.
“Around six,” she yawns. Then she swears softly. “My head is pounding.”
A laugh bubbles up from my chest, quiet and cracked. “Mine too.”
“Maybe we sleep in and talk later,” she says.
“Sounds good.” My voice comes out hoarse.
She’s quiet for a second. Then, softer, “Love you.”
“Love you too.”
Her footsteps fade. The front door opens, then closes. A car engine rumbles outside a moment later, and I imagine Damon in his uniform, rain still dripping from his hair, looking furious at the world like usual.
I sink down until the water laps at my shoulders. The cold bites into me, but god, it feels incredible. My skin still tingles, warm in places no cold water seems able to touch, but at least the dizziness is fading.
I focus on the ceiling, letting the cold soak into my bones. Everything aches. My body feels like it’s been rewired overnight, like someone reached inside and twisted every dial to maximum.
This isn’t normal. Magic surges make people sick or jittery, sure, but this is something else. Something deep and strange and frighteningly pleasant.
I don’t want to think about that.
I close my eyes, letting the sound of the water fill the space around me. The storm outside has softened to a gentle patter. My breathing slows.
I’m drifting again when I hear Thistle leap onto the sink. His tail flicks against the cabinet. He watches me with narrowed eyes, as if he can sense the weird magic vibrating beneath my skin.
“I’m fine,” I whisper.
He flicks his tail again.
“Okay, maybe I’m not fine.”
I don’t have answers. I don’t even know where to start looking for them. A Rift surge hit last night, of course things feel weird, but this is… intense.
Too intense.
I dunk my face beneath the water for a moment, letting the cold burn away the confusion. When I surface again, my hair sticks to my cheeks.
I breathe.
I breathe again.
The water helps. Not completely, but enough that I can think in straight lines.
Eventually the chill starts sinking deeper, settling into my bones. My fingers wrinkle. My teeth give a tiny tap that warns me I’m not invincible, and I sigh, climbing out of the tub.
The towel feels rough on my skin, every tiny fiber sending a shiver through me. I pad into the bedroom, Thistle shadowing me from the bathroom before hopping onto the bed. I dress slowly, tugging on a soft sleep shirt and loose shorts, then collapse face-first onto the mattress.
The pillow smells like lavender. My breath fogs against the fabric. My eyelids flutter.
But the moment I’m still, the humming returns. Low. Constant. Unsettling.
I flip onto my back, arms sprawled out, staring at the ceiling again.
“What is happening to me?” I whisper to the empty room.
The last memory before the surge hit flashes through me—Theo’s hand sliding up my spine. His fingers brushing the marks on my neck. A dizzy rush that had felt nothing like normal attraction and everything like standing too close to a ley line.
And then I see Damon in my mind, drenched from the storm, glowering at the world. My stomach flips for no reason.
“Nope,” I tell myself. “Nope, nope, nope.”
I exhale, letting the nervous laugh die in my throat.
I force myself upright. Maybe I should call Amara. Or make actual food. Or research magical surges and physiological overload symptoms. Or Google “weird tingling everywhere not heat but kinda heat but also maybe magic.”
I rub my face.
Instead, I reach for my water bottle, chug half of it, and then flop back down.
I’ll figure this out. After a nap.
The buzzing hasn’t stopped, but exhaustion settles over me like a weighted blanket. I close my eyes, listening to Thistle purr somewhere near my feet. My body is still warm. My heartbeat still feels like it’s being pulled toward something I can’t name.
I let myself sink into the sheets anyway.
Maybe when I wake, the world will make sense again. Or at least stop vibrating.
I curl on my side, Thistle’s weight a small comfort against my calves.
The last thought drifting through my mind before sleep drags me under is simple, stupid, and impossible to shake—
Something changed last night.
And whatever it is, it isn’t finished with me yet.
Thistle watches me with his big yellow-green eyes like he’s waiting for me to get my act together, but my body keeps pulling me under this molten fog. Every part of me feels stretched thin, too warm, too aware.
The room spins a little as I brace myself on the edge of the mattress.
Breathing feels thick. My T-shirt clings to my skin in ways that make me twitch.
My thighs brush, and the smallest friction sends a pulse straight through me.
It’s humiliating how fast it happens, how fast everything tightens low in my belly.
This can’t be real.
It can’t be a heat.
I had one real heat years ago, and Griffin helped me through it with the calm focus of someone who knew exactly what to do and exactly how much space to give. I’d been terrified then, but at least it made sense.
I was a teenager. My pheromones were still sorting themselves out.
My suppressants worked afterward. I’ve never skipped a dose. I’ve never even missed a refill.
So why do I feel like I’m dissolving from the inside out?
I crawl toward the kitchen because standing feels impossible, and Thistle pads along beside me like he’s escorting a wounded animal. The cool tile kisses my knees and makes me gasp, then sigh, then try to straighten because I can’t let myself melt into a puddle on the floor.
Thistle meows and nudges his bowl. Right. Food. His routine matters, even if my brain feels like it’s been put through a blender. I manage to scoop out his meal, though I’m shaking enough that some of it spills. He forgives me instantly and digs in, happy as ever.