Axel and I are still in the office, the hour late enough that the packhouse has slipped into that quieter rhythm where only essential lights are left on and the hum of responsibility never fully sleeps, and I am halfway through reviewing patrol reports when the first wave of nausea hits hard enough that my vision blurs. It comes without warning, a sudden hollow drop in my stomach followed by heat racing up my spine, and I grip the edge of the desk instinctively as if that might anchor whatever is trying to tear loose inside me.
“Bella,” Axel says immediately, chair scraping back as he stands, his attention sharp and focused in that way that has kept us alive more times than I can count.
“I’m fine,” I lie automatically, even as my throat tightens and the room tilts slightly, because denia
