I spent the next two days after Ethan's party in bed, trapped in a haze of pain and fever. The rejection sickness had returned with a vengeance, made worse by the angry scratch marks Rhys had left on my back. Every movement sent sharp pangs radiating through my body, and my wolf remained curled in a tight, wounded ball inside me.
Mom kept checking on me, her doctor's instincts obviously on high alert. I'd managed to convince her it was just a bad flu, but I caught the worry in her eyes each time she took my temperature or brought me soup.
"Are you sure there's nothing else bothering you?" she asked on the second morning, frowning as she pressed her cool hand against my forehead.
I shook my head, wincing at the movement. "Just feeling really run down," I lied, avoiding her eyes.
