Dermot doesn’t know what he’s talking about. I’m not in heat. I remember heat; it’s seared into my muscle memory. It’s Nuriadulterated misery. Mind controlling. Madness making. This is not that. This is a queasy stomach.

Thankfully, my insides are settling now, and I’m starting to feel ridiculous. I shrink in the hoodie, tug the zipper up as high as it’ll go. I’m not used to being the center of attention, and whenever I have been, it’s not been a good scene.

Draken’s hand wanders down and unzips the hoodie to my cleavage. He slides his finger up, lightly, very casually arranging the neckline so my neck shows. So everyone...