14. Broken Pieces
14
brOKEN PIECES
~JESSICA~
C onsciousness returns in fragments— disconnected sensations, images, sounds that refuse to coalesce into coherent reality.
Warmth against my side.
The scent of sandalwood and electronics?
Movement beneath me, steady and rhythmic.
A voice, low and urgent, speaking words I can't quite grasp.
"—found her in the forest ? —"
"—five dead, professional equipment ? —"
"—nearly fell thirty feet ? —"
"—heat symptoms accelerating ? —"
I try to open my eyes, but my lids feel weighted with lead. Try to speak, but my tongue lies useless in my mouth. Try to move, but my limbs refuse to obey even the simplest commands.
Paralyzed? Drugged? Dying?
Panic flares, sharp and hot, cutting through the fog that envelops my mind. My heartbeat accelerates, pounding against my ribs like it's trying to escape.
"Easy there, Sleeping Beauty," a voice murmurs near my ear. "You're safe. Well, relatively speaking. Safe-adjacent. In the vicinity of safety."
Knox.
The realization brings no comfort. If anything, it intensifies the panic. Knox Eastman, the Alpha whose life I just saved or whose trap I just fell into, depending on interpretation. Member of Marcus's pack. Part of whatever conspiracy has been unfolding around me for seven years.
"She's waking up," he says, apparently to someone else. "Pulse is all over the place, though. We need to move faster."
"Going as fast as I can without drawing attention," another voice responds—deeper, rougher, vaguely familiar though I can't place it. "Campus security is on high alert after those shots in the forest."
Bastian? The mountain with the scarred face?
I manage to crack one eyelid open, vision blurry but gradually clearing. I'm in a vehicle—a luxurious one, judging by the supple leather against my skin and the whisper-quiet engine. Knox is beside me, one arm around my shoulders, supporting my weight against his side. His other hand presses two fingers to my wrist, monitoring my pulse with surprising professionalism.
"There she is," he says when he notices my open eye. "Welcome back to the land of the living. You had me worried for a minute there. Well, more than a minute. Forty-seven minutes, to be exact. That's how long you've been enjoying your unscheduled nap."
I try to speak, managing only a dry rasp that bears no resemblance to words.
"Whoa, don't strain yourself," Knox advises, reaching for something beyond my field of vision. "Here, small sips. It's just water, I promise. Though you look like you could use something stronger. I know I could after that little adventure."
A bottle touches my lips, and I manage a few swallows before exhaustion forces me to stop. The water helps, though not enough to restore speech or movement beyond the most basic level.
"Where..." I finally croak, the single word taking more effort than it should.
"Taking you somewhere safe," Knox replies, his usual flippant tone underlaid with something more serious. "Well, safer than a tree in the middle of Dead Forest with bounty hunters crawling all over the place. Which, by the way, excellent shooting. Five for five. Very impressive. Bit gruesome, but who am I to judge?"
His rambling would be annoying under normal circumstances.
Right now, it's oddly grounding—something to focus on beyond the weakness consuming me, the confusion fogging my thoughts.
"Marcus has prepared a secure location," the driver— definitely Bastian —explains, his voice measured and calm. "Medical personnel are standing by."
Alarm spikes through me again.
Doctors. Tests. Questions.
Vulnerability.
"No," I manage, the word stronger than my first attempt. "No doctors."
Knox exchanges a glance with Bastian that I can't interpret from my limited vantage point.
"Not negotiable, I'm afraid," Knox says, gentler than before. "Those suppressants you've been taking? They're killing you. Slowly, but very efficiently. You need treatment before they finish the job."
The statement lands like a punch straight into my gut, though it merely confirms what I've suspected for months. The dizziness, the fatigue, the increasing frequency and severity of the episodes—all signs of a system slowly breaking down under chemical assault.
But the alternative...
"Heat," I whisper, the word carrying all the fear I can't articulate more fully.
Knox's expression shifts, something like understanding passing across his features.
"Ah," he says, nodding. "The eternal dilemma. Die slowly from suppressants or risk everything during Heat. Not much of a choice, is it?"
It isn't a question that requires an answer, which is fortunate since I don't have the energy to provide one.
Instead, I close my eyes again, trying to piece together how I got here, what happened after I lost consciousness in the tree.
"You caught me," I realize aloud, the memory returning in fragments. "When I fell."
Knox makes a noncommittal sound.
"Let's say I broke your fall. 'Caught' implies more grace than was actually involved. It was more of a controlled collision. You've got a couple of impressive bruises and possibly a cracked rib, but nothing compared to what would have happened without intervention."
Despite everything— the weakness, the vulnerability, the complete loss of control over my situation —I feel a flicker of grudging gratitude. He didn't have to save me. Could have let me fall, eliminated a complication, a wild card in whatever game his pack is playing.
"Why?" I ask, the question encompassing more than just the rescue.
"Why what? Why save you? Why bring you to Marcus? Why wear mismatched socks today?" Knox shrugs, the movement jostling me slightly. "You'll have to be more specific, Venom. My mind-reading abilities are limited to Wi-Fi passwords and computer encryption."
"Why were you there?" I clarify, each word a struggle but necessary for understanding. "In the forest. With them."
Another exchange of glances between the two Alphas, another conversation I'm not privy to despite being its subject.
"I wasn't with them," Knox corrects, a hint of genuine offense in his tone. "They were hunting me. Or more accurately, hunting you through me. They'd identified us— the pack —as having connection to you. Followed me from the campus center, probably hoping I'd lead them straight to you."
"Which you did," I point out.
He has the grace to look slightly abashed.
"Not intentionally. I was actually trying to warn you. Had been tracking your phone since those goons showed up on campus. When I saw you heading into the forest, I tried to intercept, but they were closer."
It's a plausible explanation, though it doesn't address all my suspicions. But before I can press further, the car slows, turning onto what feels like a private drive judging by the sudden smoothness beneath the tires.
"We're here," Bastian announces, bringing the vehicle to a gentle stop. "Knox, you take her in. I'll secure the perimeter and make sure we weren't followed."
"Roger that, big guy," Knox replies, his irreverence returning now that immediate danger has passed. "Come on, Venom. Time to meet the medical cavalry."
He shifts, preparing to lift me, but I manage to raise a hand in weak protest.
"I can walk," I insist, stubbornness overriding physical reality.
Knox raises an eyebrow, clearly skeptical.
"Can you? Because from where I'm sitting, which is pretty much holding up your entire body weight, I'd say that's ambitious bordering on delusional."
"Try," I persist, unwilling to be carried like a child or an invalid. Bad enough to be at their mercy; worse to look the part.
He sighs but doesn't argue further, instead helping me shift to a more upright position as Bastian opens the car door. The movement sends fresh waves of dizziness crashing over me, but I grit my teeth, refusing to show weakness.
One step. Just take one step. Then another.
With Knox's support— more than I want to admit needing —I manage to exit the vehicle, my feet touching solid ground with what feels like miraculous stability given how the world continues to tilt and spin around me.
Through blurry vision, I make out our location: a modernist structure of glass and steel nestled among ancient trees, architecturally impressive but deliberately unobtrusive.
The kind of safehouse that screams money, connections, and preparation.
They've been planning this. For how long?
Three steps toward the entrance is all I manage before my knees buckle completely. Knox catches me without comment, sweeping me into his arms with surprising gentleness.
"Enough heroics for one day," he says, no mockery in his tone for once. "You've already survived a toxic gas attack, saved my life, and taken out five professional killers. I think you can accept a little help for the grand finale."
Too exhausted to protest further, I let my head rest against his shoulder as he carries me toward the glass doors that slide open at our approach. The interior is as impressive as the exterior—minimalist but luxurious, every detail speaking of careful selection rather than random acquisition.
A woman in medical scrubs appears from a side corridor, her expression professionally neutral as she assesses me with a quick glance.
"Exam room is prepared," she says to Knox, already turning to lead the way. "Dr. Chen is waiting."
Knox follows, his steps quick but measured, careful not to jostle me unnecessarily. The corridors blur around us, my vision fading in and out as consciousness becomes increasingly difficult to maintain.
We enter a room that looks more like a high-end spa treatment area than a medical facility—warm lighting, comfortable furnishings, advanced equipment that's been deliberately designed to appear less clinical than it actually is.
"Set her on the bed, please," a male voice directs—presumably Dr. Chen. "Carefully. Her vitals are already compromised."
Knox complies, lowering me onto a surface soft enough to be comfortable but firm enough to be medically appropriate. I try to focus on the doctor— late fifties, Asian features, kind eyes behind stylish glasses —but the effort proves too much.
"Ms. Vesper," the doctor says, his voice calm and reassuring as he checks my pulse. "I understand you're reluctant to be here, but I assure you, what's happening to your system requires immediate intervention. We need to flush the suppressants from your bloodstream before they cause permanent damage."
Permanent? As in irreversible? As in worse than what's already happening?
"The Heat," I manage to whisper, the fear I've been fighting for seven years finally breaking through. "I can't..."
Dr. Chen's expression softens with genuine compassion.
"I understand your concerns. Truly. But there are alternatives to traditional Heat management that don't involve either dangerous suppressants or Alpha intervention. We can discuss those once you're stabilized."
I want to believe him.
Want to trust that there's a middle path between slow poisoning and biological vulnerability.
But seven years of hypervigilance, of seeing the worst of what Alphas are capable of, makes trust nearly impossible.
"Just..." I struggle to form words as darkness begins to encroach again. "No Alphas. During. Promise."
The last thing I register before consciousness slips away entirely is the doctor's solemn nod and Knox's uncharacteristically serious voice:
"You have our word, Venom. No one touches you without consent. Not even to save your life."
It's probably a lie. The kind of promise made to soothe a dying woman, to ease her passing from this world to whatever waits beyond.
But it's a comforting lie.
And right now, comfort is all I have left to hold onto as I sink into darkness once more.
Maybe death isn't so bad after all.