Chapter 21 Kess
Kess
Something is wrong with me.
I wake up nauseous for the third morning in a row, my stomach heaving before my eyes are fully open.
Roll out of bed and barely make it to the washbasin before bile surges up my throat—nothing substantial, just the sour remnants of yesterday's dinner and the lingering aftertaste of last night's tea.
The tea Rhystan brings me every evening. The blend that's supposed to help with the transformation.
I rinse my mouth and splash cold water on my face, then force myself to look in the mirror.
Dark circles bruise the skin beneath my eyes.
My skin has gone pale, washed out, all the healthy color leached away.
My hair is wild even by my standards—tangled and dull, refusing to cooperate with braids.
I've lost weight everywhere except—I turn sideways, examining my profile—is my stomach slightly fuller?
Rounder? Hard to tell. Could just be bloating.
"Kess?" Rhystan's voice comes through the door, tight with concern. "Are you all right? I heard you get sick."
Of course he did. Dragon hearing. He's been hovering since his rut ended—watching me constantly, appearing at odd hours, bringing food I don't want and tea I force myself to drink.
"I'm fine," I call back. "Just—stomach thing. It'll pass."
"May I come in?"
I pull on a robe and open the door.
He looks nearly as wrecked as I feel. Shadows carved deep beneath his golden eyes, hair disheveled, still wearing yesterday's clothes.
But even exhausted and rumpled, something in me responds to the sight of him—the breadth of his shoulders filling the doorway, the way his gaze tracks over me like he's cataloging every detail.
"You look terrible," I observe.
"So do you." But there's no criticism in his voice, only concern that borders on fear. He reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering on my jaw. "How long have you been getting sick like this?"
"Few days. Maybe a week?" I lean into his touch without meaning to. "It's just nausea. Comes and goes. Mostly in the mornings."
Something flickers across his face—guilt, fear, recognition—gone before I can identify it.
"I'll bring the mystic. Have her examine you again—"
"No." I'm tired of being examined, poked and prodded and told my transformation is progressing correctly. "It's just a bug. I'll be fine."
"Kess—"
"I said I'm fine." The words come out sharper than I intended. "Stop hovering. Stop treating me like I'm made of glass."
He's quiet for a long moment, something wounded flickering behind his eyes.
"I'm sorry," he says finally. "I just worry about you."
The sincerity in his voice makes my chest ache.
"I know." I reach for his hand. "But you need to trust that I'll tell you if something's seriously wrong."
He squeezes my fingers, and I feel the bond pulse between us—weaker than it should be, muted like a song heard through thick walls.
"Promise you'll tell me if it gets worse?"
"Promise."
The nausea continues.
Some days it's mild—just a queasy undercurrent I can push past. Other days it hits hard enough that I can't keep anything down, spending half the morning hunched over the washbasin.
On the bad days, Rhystan appears with plain bread and weak broth. Sits with me while I force myself to eat. Holds my hair back while I retch. Rubs slow circles on my back until the heaving stops.
Being gentle in a way that makes something in my chest crack open.
I'm not a crier. Never have been—not when my father left, not when my grandmother died, not when I walked into the sacred grove expecting to die.
But lately everything makes me emotional.
Yesterday I cried because a bird flew into a window and lay stunned before flying away.
The day before I cried watching Rhystan train with his guards, something about the way he moved bringing tears to my eyes.
This morning I woke with tears already drying on my cheeks from dreams I couldn't remember.
And I keep daydreaming about things I've never wanted.
I'm in the training yard, sparring with Carter, when my mind wanders—to what it would be like to teach a child to fight.
To pass on the skills my grandmother taught me.
To watch a little girl with wild hair learn to move like a predator, or a boy with golden eyes learn to track prey through the forest.
Carter lands a hit I should have blocked easily.
I shake my head, force myself to focus. What the fuck is wrong with me?
I don't want children. Never have. The idea of being pregnant, of giving birth, of being responsible for something small and helpless—it's never appealed to me.
I've always been too wild for that, too dangerous, too much my grandmother's feral grandchild.
But lately the thoughts keep intruding.
I keep imagining Rhystan holding a baby, his massive hands cradling something fragile. Keep picturing myself teaching a child to hunt. Keep wondering what our child would look like—his golden eyes or my amber ones? His dark hair or my darker?
Would they inherit the curse?
The thought jolts me back to the present. I win the sparring match, but my body feels wrong. Off-balance in ways I can't explain. My center of gravity has shifted, throwing off movements that should be automatic.
Two weeks after the nausea starts, exhaustion crashes over me without warning.
I'm in our chambers, reading by the window, when my eyes refuse to focus. The words blur together. My head grows heavy.
I set down the book and rest my forehead on my knees. Just for a minute.
I wake to Rhystan's hand on my shoulder.
"Kess. It's past dinner. You've been asleep for hours."
I sit up slowly, wincing at the ache in my neck. The windows are dark, candles lit around the room.
"Hours?" My voice comes out rough.
"Three." He's kneeling beside me, close enough that I can smell him—smoke and stone and something underneath that makes me want to press my face into his throat. "When was the last time you ate?"
"Breakfast. Maybe."
"Come on." He helps me stand, his hand warm on my elbow. "Let's get some food in you."
"Not hungry."
"You need to eat anyway." His hand moves to my lower back, guiding me toward the small table where he's already laid out soup and bread. "You've lost weight. I can see your ribs."
Have I? I haven't been paying attention—too focused on not vomiting to notice whether my body is shrinking around me.
He settles me into a chair and sits across from me, watching while I force myself to eat.
"You're staring," I observe between reluctant spoonfuls.
"You're worrying me."
"It's just a bug."
"It's been two weeks. That's not normal." His hands clench on the table. "Please see the mystic again. Let her examine you."
"She already said I was transforming correctly."
"That was before the constant nausea. Before you started falling asleep in the middle of the day." He gestures at me. "Please, Kess. For me."
The desperation in his voice wears down my resistance.
"Fine. Tomorrow."
Relief floods his expression, so raw that I almost ask what he's really afraid of.
But I'm too tired for that conversation.
That night he brings me tea.
Same blend he's been bringing for weeks—bitter herbs masked by something slightly sweet. It settles my stomach. Helps me sleep. I drink it without question because I trust him.
But there's something in his eyes as he watches me drain the cup. Something that looks like grief.
"Are you okay?" I ask, setting down the empty cup.
"Fine." He takes the cup, not meeting my eyes. "Just tired."
"Stay with me tonight."
The invitation surprises us both. We've barely touched since his rut ended—I've been too sick, too exhausted, and he's been keeping a careful distance I don't fully understand.
"Are you sure?" he asks.
"I'm sure. I don't want to be alone."
He follows me to bed. We don't have sex—I'm too exhausted for that—but he curls around me, his chest against my back, his arm draped over my waist. Even through the nausea and exhaustion, I'm aware of the heat of him, the solid weight of his body against mine, the way I fit perfectly into the curve of him.
His hand comes to rest on my stomach.
Neither of us mentions it.
I don't think about why that feels significant. Don't think about the slight fullness there. Don't think about the way my body is changing in ways I can't name.
I just let the tea work its magic, let everything go soft and distant.
But as I drift toward sleep, I find myself wondering why the bond feels so weak.
Why I feel disconnected from him even when he's pressed against my back, even when his hand is warm on my belly, even when I can feel his breath in my hair.
Why something that should be growing stronger feels like it's slowly fraying apart.
The tea pulls me under before I can follow the thought to its conclusion.
Three weeks after the nausea starts, I'm staring at myself in the mirror.
The dark circles. The weight loss everywhere except my belly. The nausea that comes every morning and fades by afternoon. The exhaustion. The crying. The strange daydreams about children I've never wanted.
My hand drifts to my stomach without permission.
There's a thought trying to form at the edge of my mind. Something I'm not ready to look at directly. Something that would explain everything—the symptoms, his hovering, the guilt I keep catching in his eyes.
But I push it away.
It's just the contamination. Just the transformation. Just stress and change and my body adjusting to everything that's happened.
That's all it is.
That's all it can be.
I turn away from the mirror before I can think about it any harder.