Mate (Bride, #2) (77)
“Context about . . . ?”
She pauses, clearly sifting through words. Meanwhile, Koen looks as though he’s watching a show for the tenth time. Nothing that’s about to happen is going to surprise him. He could probably take over the proceedings.
What the hell is going on?
“You see, your estrogen levels are also noticeably past normal thresholds, but because of the existence of CSD, Dr. Henshaw and Sem assumed that the complex relationship between estradiol and— ”
“Layla.” I soften my interruption with a smile. “It’s very lovely that you don’t want me to blame them, and I promise I won’t, not for misreading the blood work of yours truly. But you’re saying lots of things that I don’t understand, and the suspense is killing me faster than the cortisol, so— ”
“Estrus,” she blurts out. “You’re going into Estrus.”
“Ah.” I nod.
Sit back in my chair, scratching my temple.
Gather all that I know about Estruses— Estri?— which is a beautiful wasteland of nothing.
“People without degrees would call it going into Heat,” Koen says, and the realization crashes into me like a caravan of armored trucks.
My behavior last night.
The dreams.
Koen’s . . . everything.
“People with degrees, too,” Layla adds shyly. “But it can be a charged word. I wouldn’t want to upset you.”
“You aren’t,” I say. Very upset. “Is this a thing that happens to Weres?”
“Yes, it does. Usually in wolf form.”
“But I’m . . .” I point at myself. I’m not in wolf form seems a redundant statement.
“Breakthrough heats are not unheard of in human form, either. I’ve been practicing for about ten years, and I’ve had several patients like you, triggered by all sorts of things.”
“Such as?”
“Stressful events. Medications. The most common cause is close proximity to a sexually compatible partner.” It’s remarkable how impersonally she delivers the last few words. One would think she’s
throwing out hypothetical scenarios, but I can see her hands rubbing under the desk. The fidgety bounce of her foot.
I’m not immune to the rising unease in the room, either. There’s a string tied around my neck, and Koen is pulling at it. I want to turn to him more than I want to breathe. But if I did, we’d both be remembering the way I begged him last night, and I’m not sure poor Layla deserves to witness that mess.
“If I may ask, Serena, have you been having trouble shifting?” She smiles triumphantly at my nod. “Sorry. I’m not happy that . . . There is a biological premise for this that I could explain— ”
“No need,” I hasten to say.
“— but none of my other patients were able to shift until their cycle was over.”
“Why do the fevers get so bad at night?” Koen asks.
“Simple circadian fluctuations. They’re also happening more frequently, because the Estrus is approaching. Given Serena’s half-Were state, it’s hard to predict with certainty when it’ll start, but my guess is . . . soon.”
Unfortunately, this is when I cannot put it off any longer. The Question.
I close my eyes. Mentally laser off the part of my brain that experiences embarrassment. Ask, “What will happen when Estrus starts?”
Maybe I should tell Koen to leave. The thing is, after last night he has the right to know the details of the special dumpster fire in which we’re frolicking, and Layla informing the both of us at once seems less painful than having to relay stuff to him later on. Using my own words.
“Well.” Layla clears her throat. Longingly gazes at a wall calendar, probably wishing she could turn back time and become a graphic designer.
“There’s a lot to consider when it comes to— ”
“Just tell her,” Koen orders. Yesterday, in this very office, he sounded so angry, I briefly wondered if I was going to have to send an apology vase of hydrangeas to the Caine family. Today, I cannot get the slightest read on him.
Layla coughs, just to buy some time. “Some symptoms have already begun. Decrease in appetite. General aches. In the next few days, you’ll likely see a spike in nesting behavior.”
“Please, tell me I won’t be picking up twigs and weaving baskets out of them.”
“It has more to do with procuring scents, textures, and objects you find soothing. The goal is for you to build a space that will offer comfort in a time of need.”
“What do you mean by . . . What kind of objects?” I’m half terrified that she’ll recommend a list of vibrators.
The answer is somehow worse.
“There is no hard and fast rule. It can be a particularly soft fabric. A piece of clothing that belongs to someone who makes you feel safe. Some people hoard specific objects and arrange them in soothing ways. Combine different materials.”
“Why does this sound like a job that requires a master’s degree?”
“Not at all. There is no right or wrong way to nest, and it’s a very instinctive process.” She scratches her nose. “You may have even already started, in your own way.” Layla’s eyes pointedly slide to the overly large red flannel I stole from Koen’s closet, and I can feel my heartbeat pounding in my cheeks.