The walk to the ridge took twice as long as it usually did.
Not because the path had changed, but because Alex's body had decided that every step required negotiation. His lower back ached with a dull, persistent throb that pulsed in time with his footsteps. His breasts, tender and heavy beneath his shirt, protested every jostle. And the nausea—the ever-present nausea that had become his constant companion since the heat—rose and fell in waves, triggered by nothing and everything.
Naga walked beside him, one coil looped loosely around Alex's waist, not restraining but supporting. The serpent lord's scales were cool against the heat radiating from Alex's skin, and Alex found himself leaning into the contact more than he wanted to admit.
"Stop counting your steps," Naga said quietly.
"I'm not—"
"You're breathing in a rhythm. Counting. One-two-three-four. One-two-three-four. Like you're trying to measure the distance by how many times you don't throw up."
