Gavin is not fine. Well, a little maybe…okay, not really. He feels nauseous, saliva pooling under his tongue and he feels dizzy. He swallowed for the nth time. He feels warm. Too warm. He’s sweating under the dark robe he’s wearing, using its sleeves to wipe the droplet of sweat he felt trailing down his temple. He feels sick, and he should probably tell Ainar, but he really wants to attend the coronation so he ought not to. The alpha might be able to smell it still anyways, but fuck it.
The robe he’s wearing is another old robe from Tundra’s Pack Luna. Just like the white grieving robe he wore before, this one also fits him perfectly, as if tailored to his size. It’s smooth and soft, cozy and comfortable. It smells like it had been in store for long. Just like the first time, the palace tailor—Omega Shaun, looked at him with critical eyes. The Elder Omega regarded him with something unreadable in his gaze
