The house door closes with a soft click—the kind of sound that should mean safety, should mean solitude, should mean finally. But nothing about tonight feels safe.
My steps echo across the polished marble, each footfall a heartbeat I can't control. I walk straight to my room, and with every step, something inside me unravels.
My eyes are shining. The blue irises—usually calm, usually cold—are glowing now with something feral. Something hungry.
They always look like this when my rut comes. When the thing inside me finally stops sleeping.
My body is burning. Not the slow heat of anger or the warm flush of wine. This is different. This is fever—wild and electric, spreading beneath my skin until it feels like my own body is turning against me.
My breaths come hard and shallow, each one a battle I'm losing. I can sense my pheromones spreading through the air, slipping from me faster than I can contain them.
