"You're cold."
I blinked at him. "What?"
"You're cold," he repeated, an edge creeping into his voice now. He reached out and pressed the back of his hand against my forehead, then pulled it back like he'd touched ice. "Fuck. When did this start?"
I opened my mouth to answer and realized I didn't know. The adrenaline from the cameras and Cinder's rejection had masked everything else, but now that Max was looking at me like that, I felt it.
The cold.
It had crept in so gradually I hadn't noticed—the same way it had during the game. That slow, insidious chill wrapping around my bones, my dragon coiling tight in my chest, trying to contain something that was spreading anyway, and deep down, it terrified me.
"I don't know," I admitted, and heard my own voice come out too steady. Too calm. The way it always did when my body was doing things it shouldn't.
Max's eyes widened. "Your knee?"
"No." I flexed it automatically. Still fine. Still healed. "Nothing's injured."
"Then why—" He stopped, understanding dawning across his face. "The cameras. The stress."
I wanted to argue, but he was right. My dragon didn't just respond to physical injury—it responded to threat. And those photographers closing in, invading Cinder's space when he was vulnerable, had felt like a threat in a way that made something primal inside me react.
"Taz." Max's voice had gone softer now, worried in a way that made my chest tighten. "You need to get somewhere warm. Now."
"I'm fine—"
"You're not." He grabbed my elbow, steadying me when I swayed slightly. When had I started swaying? "Come on. Let's get you upstairs."
I wanted to argue. Wanted to insist I could handle this the way I'd handled it during the game. But the truth was, I'd barely handled it then. I'd needed Cinder's steady hands and calm voice to anchor me, needed his competence to cut through the cold long enough for my body to remember how to function.
And now Cinder was gone, and the cold was spreading, and Max was looking at me like I might collapse at any second.
"Okay," I said quietly and noticed my breath fog.Shit.
I rushed upstairs as quickly as I could, with Max staying close. The elevator doors slid shut, sealing us into that tiny metal box, and I leaned against the wall harder than I meant to. The cold had settled deep now, wrapping around my ribs, making each breath feel like I was pulling it through frost.
Max stood beside me, arms crossed, watching me with the kind of attention that made it impossible to hide anything.
"I'm okay," I said, before he could ask again.
He snorted. "You look like death."
"Thanks."
"Taz." He shifted his weight, expression torn between worry and frustration. "You need to tell me what's actually happening. Because this isn't normal, even for you."
I closed my eyes, letting my head rest against the cool metal. The vibration of the elevator moving helped somehow, grounding me when everything else felt like it was slipping sideways.
"My dragon reacts to stress," I said finally. "Physical injury, emotional threat—it doesn't distinguish. It just... protects."
"By freezing you?"
"By containing the damage." I opened my eyes and met his gaze. "It's not trying to hurt me, Max. It's trying to keep me functional." I was lying. Could he hear the panic in my voice?
He didn't look convinced. "And how's that working out?"
I almost laughed. Almost. "I'll be fine once I warm up. It just takes time."
The elevator chimed, announcing the eighth floor. Max followed me down the corridor, hovering like he expected me to collapse at any second. Maybe he wasn't wrong to worry. My legs felt distant, disconnected, like they belonged to someone else and I was just borrowing them temporarily.