Phoebe's POV
Heat. That's what dragged me from sleep—an overwhelming, suffocating warmth that made my skin sticky with sweat.
My eyes snapped open, and I knew instantly what was wrong.
Perry had me trapped in his iron grip, his muscular arms locked around my body like steel bands. The man was a walking furnace on a normal day, but this? This was different.
This was dangerous.
I twisted in his hold, pressing my palm flat against his forehead. His skin burned beneath my touch—not the usual heat of his shifter body, but something fierce and wrong.
Fever.
My heart stuttered. Shifters didn't get sick. They especially didn't run fevers. And someone like Perry, with royal blood coursing through his veins and healing abilities that put other shifters to shame? This shouldn't be possible.
I must have missed it last night when he crawled into bed. He'd kept his distance then, hadn't pulled me close like usual. Now I understood why.
