Chapter 31 #2
He sleeps upright in that uncomfortable plastic chair, his tall frame awkwardly folded into a space too small to contain him. Sometimes when I wake in the night, I catch him watching me, his eyes reflecting the dim light like a predator’s in the darkness.
By the fifth morning, I’m strong enough to sit up with the help of the adjustable bed.
The doctors have removed the rigid neck brace and replaced it with a softer collar that allows greater movement.
My arms remain encased in their casts, but the pain has dulled to a manageable ache unless I move too suddenly.
This morning, it’s just Kieran and me in the room.
The early sunlight streams through the blinds, casting stripes across his exhausted face. There are shadows under his eyes, and his stubble has grown into the beginnings of a beard. He looks nothing like the polished, controlled alpha who fired me from his home.
“You don’t need to be here the whole time,” I whisper, my voice stronger now but still rough around the edges. “You should take a break. Go home. Shower. See Nora.”
His eyes meet mine, and I see raw vulnerability I’ve never seen in him before.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says simply. Then, softer. “Unless you want me to leave.”
The question hangs between us, heavy with meaning. Do I want him to leave? Part of me does. My feelings are still raw from his rejection. But another part, a traitorously weak part, finds comfort in his constant presence.
“It’s not about what I want,” I say carefully. “You need to take care of yourself.”
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes never leaving mine.
“Francine,” he begins, and then pauses, as if struggling to find the right words. “I need to tell you something, and I need you to really hear me.”
My heart beats faster, the monitor beside me betraying my body’s response to the intensity of his gaze.
“I love you.”
I freeze, at a complete loss for words. I’m waiting for him to say ‘just kidding’ or something like that.
“I love you,” he repeats. “I made the biggest mistake of my life when I sent you away. I let my pain blind me. I couldn’t see past what your mother did. You are nothing like her. I’m so sorry.”
I feel a strange numbness spreading through my chest. He’s apologizing just like I’ve been wishing for. But ever since he rejected me, something broke inside of me.
I’m saved from replying to him by the door swinging open as Drake and Elias walk in, both carrying cups of coffee.
“Morning, sunshine,” Drake says, his smile brightening the sterile room as he sees me sitting up. “Look at you! Practically ready to run a marathon.”
Elias rolls his eyes at Drake’s exuberance but offers me a gentle smile. “How are you feeling today?”
“Better,” I reply, grateful for the interruption while my heart is still beating a mile a minute from Kieran’s apology. “Where’s Rowan?”
“He’s at home with Nora,” Elias explains, handing one of the coffee cups to Kieran, who accepts it with a nod. “She had a lot of questions about when you’re coming back. We told her you had an accident and needed time to heal.”
My heart twists at the mention of Nora. I miss the little girl. But the mention of returning sends a ripple of anxiety through me.
Coming back where? To their home? As what? They can’t possibly expect things to return to how they were before.
And then there’s the secret of the positive pregnancy test that feels like a time bomb ticking inside me. What if they’ll only want me back because of the baby?
“The doctor should be by soon,” Drake says, perched on the edge of my bed carefully, to avoid jostling me. “Word is they might spring you out today if your vitals stay stable.”
The thought of leaving the hospital fills me with equal parts hope and dread. I’m desperate to go home, but I know I won’t be able to take care of myself. I need to call Carmen.
As if on cue, a nurse enters, clipboard in hand. She’s been caring for me since I arrived, her efficient movements and no-nonsense attitude oddly comforting in this chaotic situation.
“Good news,” she says, checking my IV and the monitors. “Dr. Chen says you’re ready for discharge today. You’re healing well. Do you have someone who can help take care of you? You’ll need assistance with pretty much everything for at least a few weeks.”
I open my mouth to say I’ll call my sister, but Kieran speaks first.
“I’ll be taking care of her,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument.
The nurse looks at him, then at me, clearly waiting for confirmation.
I feel trapped, cornered by his declaration and my own helplessness.
Part of me wants to refuse, to maintain what little independence I have left.
But the practical part knows I can’t manage alone, and my sisters have their own lives, their own responsibilities.
The nurse nods, apparently taking my silence as agreement. “Great. I’ll get the discharge paperwork started. Another nurse will be in to go over home care instructions with you.”
She bustles out, leaving me staring at Kieran in disbelief.
“You can’t just decide that,” I say, my voice low.
“Can you honestly tell me you have a better option?” he counters, his expression softening. “Let me do this, Francine. Let me help you.”
I want to argue, to assert that I don’t need his help or his pity. But the truth is, I do need help, and the thought of being alone in my apartment, struggling with basic tasks like using the bathroom or dressing myself, is terrifying.
So I say nothing, which Kieran takes as acceptance. There’s relief in his eyes, which confuses me.
The next hour passes in a flurry of activity.
A different nurse comes in to disconnect me from the various machines, carefully removing the IV from my arm and bandaging the small puncture wound.
Another goes through detailed instructions with Kieran about my medication schedule, the signs of infection to watch for, and how to help me bathe with the casts.
By the time they bring in a wheelchair, I’m drained, sweat beading on my forehead just from the effort of staying upright while they explain everything.
As the nurse begins to wheel me toward the door, I catch sight of Kieran gathering my few belongings with one hand while holding a pair of crutches in the other.
The sight of those crutches makes my future suddenly, painfully real—weeks of struggling to move, dependent on others for the most basic needs.
I’ll be a burden to them all.
The very opposite of what an omega should be. I was supposed to care for them, to make their lives easier, to bring warmth and comfort to their home. Instead, I’ll be an invalid requiring constant attention, unable to give anything in return.
My throat tightens with unshed tears as we move down the hospital corridor toward the exit. I was someone with purpose, with a job, with independence. Now what am I? Omegas aren’t supposed to be a burden.
As the automatic doors slide open and the cool outside air hits my face for the first time in days, I can’t help but wonder if this broken shell of a person is someone the alphas could truly want.