Guinevere woke drenched.
The sheets were soaked through. Her hair was plastered to her neck and forehead, and heat rolled off her body in waves that had nothing to do with the hearth or the man beside her. It was coming from inside, deep and building, a fever that had no origin and no ceiling.
Her wolf stirred. Restless. Pacing behind her ribs in tight circles.
She tried to sit up. Her arms shook. Sweat dripped off her chin onto the silk and she stared down at the dark spot it made and tried to understand what was happening to her body.
Beside her, Maddox's eyes opened. His nostrils flared once, and his entire body went rigid.
He knew what this was before she did.
His hand found her hip under the sheets.
"Gwen." His voice was low. Controlled. Deliberately calm. "Look at me."
She turned her head. Her green eyes were glassy. Unfocused. The pupils blown too wide for the dim light.
