Chapter 50 I Wish You Would… #2
The world sharpens and suddenly I hear the hum of traffic, the scent of asphalt, and see the glow of streetlights. I can't tell if this is a memory or I'm dreaming.
I’m stepping out of the restaurant, holding my phone. I press it to my ear, and my voice shakes. “Kane?”
Static.
A harsh crackle distorts the line as his voice breaks apart, shifting between something familiar and something wrong.
“Kane, I think I need a favor,” I manage. “Something’s wrong, and I need you to come get me.”
The static deepens, swallowing his response. Then, nothing.
I jolt awake with a sharp gasp, lungs burning, and my heart slamming against my ribs as the storm rages outside. Rain hammers the windows and I can hear the wind tearing through the trees.
I’m still on the couch I was on earlier. Still here, wherever here is.
The air in the room is heavy in a way that has nothing to do with my own exhaustion.
I close my eyes, reaching for the storm, trying to feel it, to pull at its power like I’ve been practicing for weeks.
But it’s too distant. It feels like it’s miles away.
I guess that means the storm outside is real.
Every breath I take sends a wave of nausea rolling through me. Muffled voices drift from somewhere beyond the walls, but it’s too quiet to catch anything.
I force my eyes to stay open, my thoughts slowly untangling as I take in my surroundings. The room is dimly lit, with the faint scent of leather and cologne lingering in the air. I’m on a couch, in what seems to be his living room.
My chest tightens, a desperate urge to leave crawls under my skin like a living thing. I need to get out of here, I need to be anywhere but here, in a stranger’s house, feeling like my body isn’t mine.
A cool breeze filters in through an open window, cutting through the thick haze in my mind.
It’s a small comfort, but I latch onto it, trying to steady myself.
This doesn’t feel the same as what happened in Nveri.
This is very different. I know I didn't burn out, because I didn't use any magic, so why did I pass out?
I need to leave. Now.
What I need to do is call Kane. No matter how smooth or accommodating Mike may seem, being here feels wrong.
As if summoned by my thoughts, Mike steps into the room with a glass of water in his hand. His expression is calm, which helps. A little.
“Hey, you’re awake. By the time I came back earlier, you were already asleep.”
He holds the glass out to me, watching me carefully. “Here, you should drink this. Just take it slow.”
I take the cup from him, the cool condensation grounding me a little. But the hesitation doesn't leave, so I keep my grip careful and my sips small.
“Thanks.” My voice is wrecked, and I try to clear my throat, pushing for casual. “Did you mention something about a doctor earlier?”
Mike nods, but his face gives nothing away. “Yeah, he’s in the other room. He’d like to ask you a few questions, just to make sure you’re okay.”
Oh, great. Story time with a stranger. Anxiety flares, and my eyes dart around the room. And where's my stuff?
I shift slightly, trying not to move too much or I might actually throw up. “You didn’t happen to grab my bag, did you?” I force a small laugh, hoping it sounds effortless, even though it hurts like hell. “I had it with me when I left the restaurant, but it’s not here.”
A thoughtful look flickers across his face. “I don’t recall you having a bag,” he says after a moment. “But I'll check the car. Maybe it’s in the backseat. If not, I can have my driver go back to the restaurant to find it.”
I nod, forcing an easy smile despite the tension tightening in my chest. “That would be great. Thanks.”
His lips curve into a reassuring smile, but it feels a little too polished. He lingers a moment before finally turning away, his footsteps fading down the hall. The second he’s gone, I let out a breath and sink deeper into the couch.
On the surface, Mike's basically a poster boy for charm and manners. Polite, thoughtful, and says all the right things. But no matter how much I tell myself, I can't quite relax. Maybe it's the fact that my life's been a dumpster fire lately.
None of this makes sense.
I barely have time to process before someone else steps into the room. I'm assuming he's the doctor.
He’s older, tall, and dressed way too casually for a doctor. He's in a button-down with slacks, and wire-rimmed glasses that catch the light as he adjusts them.
“Hello, Raven,” the man greets with a warm tone. “I heard you passed out. I’m here to check on a few things, and make sure you’re alright. Mike said you weren’t feeling well.”
I swallow, keeping my expression neutral. Great. Let's add 'random fainting' to my growing list of party tricks.
“I feel a little better now.” I lift the glass of water slightly, as if that somehow proves my point. “Not sure what happened. One second, I was fine. The next, I felt dizzy, then… I woke up here.”
My voice comes out steady, but my pulse isn’t.
I reach for my necklace, but my fingers meet bare skin.
Right, it’s in my bag. The bag I don’t have.
Realizing I didn’t actually bring my bag to our meeting makes me feel a little better.
But I still need my phone so I can get the fuck out of here before anything else happens.
“I see.” He tilts his head slightly, like he’s trying to piece something together. Then, after a beat, he asks, “I have to ask, because it’s surprisingly common in cases like this, but is there a chance you might be pregnant?”
I snort before I can stop myself. “No. Absolutely not.”
The answer comes out sharper than I intend, but seriously? That’s what you’re leading with?
He chuckles, unfazed. “Had to ask.”
The warmth in his voice cools, turning clinical. “Have you experienced anything like this before? Dizziness? Tingling in your hands? Memory issues? Anything… unusual like that?”
I open my mouth, then stop.
Yeah, pretty sure blurting out my weird symptoms to a stranger isn't the move.
I know it's probably nothing and he's just doing his job, but paranoia and I are old friends now that I smell like a walking air freshener.
I force a shrug. “Not really. I probably just ate something dumb. My body likes to throw a fit about random foods.”
It's not a total lie, but it still feels weak.
His stare lingers before he hums thoughtfully. “Hmm. Maybe it was just low blood sugar.” He leans forward a bit, looking down his glasses. “When did you last eat before the diner?”
“Breakfast I guess?”
Before he can ask another question, Mike walks back in.
The doctor barely acknowledges him, holding up a single finger before moving to his side, speaking in hushed tones.
I can't make out their words, but Mike glances at me—just for a second.
The doctor's gestures look casual enough, probably telling him I'm fine.
And yet, the hairs on the back of my neck refuse to settle.