Morning came in a thin, colorless wash that made the pack house feel carved out of one continuous stone. Rain had eased into a slow drip from eaves and gutters, leaving the courtyard slick and reflective, and every scent carried farther than it should have.
Sable woke to that sharpened air and to Cassian's arm across her waist like a boundary drawn in flesh.
She lay still for a moment, breathing through her nose, waiting to see if her stomach would behave.
The nausea rolled up in a quick, sour wave the instant she shifted her weight, and she clenched her jaw hard enough that her teeth ached. She refused the instinct to bolt upright, refused the childish panic that would have made her look and feel weak. Instead she stayed where she was, eyes closed, breathing slow and controlled.
Cassian woke the way he always did when something changed in her body. Not with confusion. With immediate focus. His hand slid to the center of her back, steady and warm.
"Breathe," he murmured.
