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To reach for me.

Maybe to say something sharp and knowing, something to remind me that he always wins, that I always break.

His breathing stays even, his body unmoving.

As if even he is exhausted by this.

By me.

I force myself to stand, my spine aching, my muscles tight.

A headache pounds at my temples, dull and relentless, my skin too hot, my vision too sharp at the edges.

I feel strange.

Like something is slithering beneath my skin, unseen, waiting.

I shake my head, trying to ignore it, trying to focus on the one thing I know how to do—walk away.

The washroom is dimly lit, the air overflows with the scent of damp stone and stale perfume.

I grab the basin of water near the hearth, dipping my hands inside, splashing it against my face.

The chill does nothing.

I grip the edges of the wooden basin, breathing hard, my pulse skittering too fast.

Something is seriously wrong.

I catch my reflection in the polished steel of the washbasin.

And freeze.

My veins.

Just beneath my skin—they are dark.

They don’t look like bruises.

Like something black and ancient is threading through me, coiling under my flesh.

A shudder rips through my spine.

I press my fingers to my throat, to my pulse, to the spot just above my collarbone where Zephiran mouth had been last night, where his teeth had sunk into my skin, where his hands had held me down and left their mark.

The veins flicker of something not mine.

I suck in a breath.

What the fuck is happening to me?

That relic. When I shattered it, I felt something slithered inside me.

Gods.

This started the moment my blood touched him.

The realization is slow.