Chapter 39
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Dane
“She finished almost half the soup,” Diego tells me in a low voice, his eyes never leaving Zoe’s sleeping form. “And she was lucid. Just for a minute, but she knew who I was.”
I nod, taking in the information with the same focus I’d apply to a security briefing. “Temperature?”
“Down to 101.2,” he says, a cautious hope in his voice. “Doctor said that’s a good sign.”
I glance at the medical monitor. The numbers match what Diego’s told me. Her vitals are improving, if marginally. The fever that had her thrashing in her sleep earlier has eased enough that she’s resting more peacefully now.
“You should rest,” I tell him, noticing the slight tremble in his hands as he arranges the blankets around her for what must be the hundredth time. “I’ve got this watch.”
He doesn’t answer immediately. His hand lingers on the blanket covering her shoulder, his thumb stroking the soft fabric in a small, unconscious movement. He looks from her pale, sleeping face to mine, and his eyes are full of a raw, naked worry. “Are you sure? I don’t mind staying.”
“I’m sure.” My gaze shifts from him and back to her. “She needs you at full strength, not exhausted.”
He sighs, finally accepting the logic of my words. “Call me if—”
“I will,” I promise, already moving to sit in the chair beside her bed.
He gives a slow, reluctant nod. He looks down at Zoe, at her head resting peacefully on his chest, and for a second, I think he’s not going to move. Finally, with a sigh that is pure, pained reluctance, he gently eases her off him, settling her back against the pillows.
He stands and smooths the blanket over her shoulder before he finally turns to leave. At the door, he pauses.
I look up, raising an eyebrow in silent question.
“Talk to her,” he says. “Even if she seems asleep. She... I think she can hear us.”
I don’t respond right away. Talking isn’t my strong suit. Words are Tristan’s domain, or Diego’s. Not mine.
But for her...
“I will,” I say again, and mean it.
Diego gives me a small, tired smile, then slips out, pulling the door mostly closed behind him.
I take a moment to simply watch her. Her skin has lost some of the alarming flush of fever. Her breathing is even. She looks... peaceful. My gaze drops to her throat, to the claiming marks. They look... different. Less angry. Faded. I tell myself it’s a good sign. A sign of healing.
I reach out, my fingers hovering just above the marks, not quite touching. I can feel the heat radiating from them, a warmth that doesn’t match the rest of her cooling skin. The bond is still fighting, still trying to hold on.
But for how long?
I pull my hand back, settling into the chair. My role is clear: monitor, protect, watch for any changes. It’s what I do best. What I’ve always done for the pack.
But Diego’s words echo in my mind. Talk to her.
I clear my throat, feeling awkward and exposed despite being alone with an unconscious woman.
“So,” I begin, my voice rusty. “I’m not good at this. At talking. You probably figured that out already.”
No response, of course. Just the steady rise and fall of her chest.
“The others are better at it,” I continue. “Me, I just... watch. Listen. Make sure everyone’s safe.”
I pause, feeling foolish. But then, barely perceptible, I see her hand twitch on the bedspread. A small, involuntary movement. But it’s enough to make me continue.
“I’ve been watching you since that first night at the gallery,” I admit, the words coming easier now that I know, or at least hope, she can hear me.
“Not just because of the security concerns. Because you were... different. You didn’t flinch when we walked in.
Didn’t try to flatter us or give us false praise in exchange for donations. You just... were.”
Another twitch, this time her foot, a restless movement beneath the blankets. She’s dreaming, perhaps. Or fighting the fever in her sleep.
I reach out, my hand settling on her ankle through the blanket. It’s something I used to do for my little sister when she had nightmares. A grounding touch. Barely there, but present.
The effect is immediate. Her restless movements cease, her breathing deepening slightly as she settles back into a more peaceful sleep.
“There you go,” I murmur, keeping my hand in place. “Just rest. We’re handling everything else.”
I find myself continuing to talk, the words coming more naturally now that I’m not expecting a response.
I tell her about growing up in Sweetwater and then meeting Rett in college.
About the tough early days as a young pack and finding my place as the protector.
I tell her about my security work at Sterling Solutions, about the satisfaction of identifying threats before they materialize.
I don’t tell her about the fear that gripped me when I saw her limp in her apartment. I don’t tell her about the cold, razor-sharp panic that sliced through me when the doctor explained the bond was failing. Some things are still too raw, too new to voice.
But I do tell her this:
“I need you to fight,” I say, my voice dropping to a rough whisper. “I need you to stay. Not for the static. For us. For me.”
I almost imagine I see her expression change, a slight furrow appearing between her brows. But it’s gone as quickly as it appeared, her face smoothing back into peaceful sleep.
My hand remains on her ankle, that simple point of contact becoming an anchor. Through it, I can feel the faint, fluttering pulse of the bond. It’s weak, but it’s there. A reminder of what we stand to lose if we fail.
The moon crawls across the windows, its pale light tracing a slow path across the floor. The soft, rhythmic beep of the medical monitor beside the bed becomes a kind of mantra, a steady counterpoint to the frantic, silent prayers in my own head.
I don’t need to see them to know the others are awake.
I can feel their restless energy through the bond, a low, anxious hum from the other room.
Rett, pacing. Tristan, staring at a screen that he’s not really seeing.
Diego, in the kitchen, his worry manifesting in the soft, useless clatter of pans. We are a pack holding its breath.
As the night deepens, my gaze travels up her body. Her legs are no longer restless. Her chest rises and falls in a slow, even rhythm. Peaceful.
My eyes linger there longer than they should, on the soft curves hidden beneath the cotton of the sleep shirt Diego dressed her in. A memory flashes in my mind: her in that black dress at the art gala, the smooth, pale skin of her shoulders, the delicate, sharp line of her collarbone.
A low, possessive heat coils in my gut. My free hand clenches into a fist at my side. The reaction is automatic. This isn’t just about the bond.
It’s... her.
I force my gaze upward and focus on her face. In the faint predawn light, she looks... fragile. My eyes land on her throat. On the marks. And my blood turns to ice.
And a cold, sharp alarm shoots through me. The marks. They’re disappearing. They look like old scars, almost translucent.
“Rett,” I say, my voice a low, urgent growl that cuts through the silence of the room. “Get in here,” I command, my eyes never leaving the faint, disappearing marks on Zoe’s throat. “All of you. Now.”