Time alone to think and let it sink in has done nothing except get me riled and upset, and yes, Iâve cried buckets.
I sat huddled in the corner for a good twenty minutes and sobbed my heart out while it felt like it was breaking again, much like when I left Colton and found myself alone without him and had no choice but to keep going.
As soon as the doc left, it was all I could doâfor me, my mother, brother, father, family, and pack. For the mate I can never have.
I cried until my nose ran, and I couldnât breathe, and I drenched the upper part of my gown because I was still wearing it at that point.
The cold wet spreading across my chest on thin fabric was strangely comforting, mirroring how my soul felt and how it was seeping into every pore.
I felt hopeless, weak, and broken, and I have no idea how to get past that.
It was for Colton and Sierra, too, for their pain, loss, and this whole goddamn mess.
For the life I should have had, the family I should have still been with, and the mate I would have imprinted on and been allowed to be with. It would have still been Colton.
Thatâs what the Fates decided a long time ago, but I would never have had to leave him, and I would be with him now, safe in his arms and calmed by his touch.
I would be guided by that wise part of him that always seems to know whatâs going on. Only it failed him when he needed that gift the most.
I miss him so much it kills me, even if I canât get past what heâs done to our bond, and he still breaks me. It adds to my urgency in looking around for some kind of pointer on what to do.
I shake myself and remind myself that the girl I was is deadâlittle Alora of the Whyte pack at Elren farm, peacefully living a carefree life.
The war saw her parentsâ unplanned departure, and Juan saw they never returned. She died a long time ago when her life was turned upside down, altering everything she knew.
Her path disintegrated, and all those dreams and hopes fluttered away in the breeze.
That unwanted, rejected, and feeble little no one who imprinted on a boy ten years later, who stood in her placeâalso dead!
She couldnât be allowed to love her fated mate because of what she was. She never really existed anyway.
She was a lie fed to me and made me live under a mask of my own making because I never knew the truth, and this girl, this one right here, sheâs the Alora whoâs been holding her breath and waiting for me to find her.
Sheâs the daughter of a warrior, the daughter of a prophetic queen who was slain for her power.
Sheâs the heroine of a prophecy, and sheâs a goddamn white wolf with red eyes, which makes her some kind of hybrid with gifts.
Gifts that a witch thought so powerful, she bound them until a time came when she needed to get them backâa witch who sacrificed her life and her sonâs sanity to protect her.
Sheâs someone to be reckoned with; she needs to find a way to bloom.
That doesnât sound like any kind of weak no one to me, not a reject, or unworthy of an alpha mate, and I need to own that shit.
A black cloud of shame and failure has overshadowed everything Iâve done in my life for the past ten years, and I believed I was never good enough because they told me soâbut now itâs gone.
Itâs almost like someone lifted that lid and finally uncaged my soul. Thereâs nothing over my head weighing me down now, and that little voice that second-guessed it allâitâs dead, too.
That was never my voice; it was theirs in the world around the mountain. I am deaf to their sounds now.
This girl has a right to stand up and be counted as someone worthy, and the Fates, for whatever reason, led me here, and I need to see it through.
They knew me before I existed, and I was part of the plan. They know what Iâm capable of and set me on my way to ensure I show everyone else.
If they got me this far, they might have a plan, and I should stop fighting and listenâclose my eyes and let the Fates send me some message through the cosmos and the air because this is~ not~ how it ends.
The noise of the elevator interrupts my train of thought, a noise so perfectly on cue. I blink and open my eyes, and my head spins toward the source.
I half expect Deacon to stroll in and make my day worse, if thatâs even possible.
But itâs the doc, and heâs pushing a cabinet on wheels with all manner of things sliding off the top as he dashes to Sierraâs room.
Iâm drawn to the wall to watch him, suspicious of his behavior, and forget my pep talk and internal confidence-boosting.
He seems different somehow, wired maybe, a little erratic, his walking around and hurried movements abrupt.
He drops a smattering of implements on the floor, the noise of cascading metal and hard objects clattering and echoing in this large space.
He abandons the cart outside Sierraâs door and swipes the panel to open it.
He stops before entering, picks up the instruments, and throws them back on top, scooping any more he disturbs with his ungraceful and somewhat rushed movements.
Then he runs into her room and starts frantically pressing machine buttons by her head.
I canât do much else but watch, and as he picks up small mobile devices and sits them on her bed, his face is severe, ashen, and entirely focused on what he is doing.
I realize heâs not just checking on her. Somethingâs up. His expression says it all; thereâs no hint of the gentle, pleasant, eccentric doctor at this moment. He looks frayed and afraid.
Even from here, I can see heâs sweating, his forehead blushed and shiny, and his white jacketâs underarms are darkening with excessive body heat.
Heâs in a state of panic, and I look around, expecting his staff or the guards to come flooding down, suddenly worried about why.
My nerves hitch as my stomach ties itself in knots, and I end up flat to the window, palms pressed by the sides against the glass, breathing heavily as I watch, anchored to my spot.
Maybe Sierra is crashing. Maybe all I was to do was witness her die. God, no, please. Colton needs to see her one last time. She canât die; he needs her!
I canât stand the thought of him losing her without saying goodbye. I need to know what Iâm supposed to do now.
The doc unhooks her from the machine, keeping her heartbeat monitored loudly, and I hold my breath, inhaling sharply as the beep, beep stops so suddenly the air becomes unbearably silent.
I donât get why he would take that off, but when he yanks another box from under the bed and plugs her into that instead, I exhale, slightly confused.
That familiar beep, beep starts up again in a subtler tone from a different machine.
He moves to the next and the next, replacing everything he can with smaller mobile devices as my brain pulls together amid my frantic fear and gives me a shake.
Heâs not trying to save her or take her off the machines; heâs making her mobile so he can move her.
He stops and rushes off out of sight as he heads into the elevator once more, abandoning everything heâs left in chaos.
A moment later, he comes crashing back ungracefully, pushing another bed, this one on wheels, back to her room.
I press my cheek to the cool, smooth wall in front of me, eyes locked on and heart rate hitching as it filters through.
He catches me watching him, notices me with a second snap of his head as though he didnât see me the first time, and makes a weird waving gesture with his hands that translates to nothing.
I donât understand.
âWhat?â I yell back, unsure what heâs doing.
He does it again, waving two fingers in the air, which I can only assume means two minutes. I move back, confusion taking over, but intrigue is the dominant feeling.
A thousand questions about why heâs moving her replaces everything else coursing through me.
I watch as Iâve nothing else to do, and itâs all I am capable of over here anyway.
He struggles to get her from one bed to the other and shakes his head in defeat, his face getting redder and sweatier as he does.
Pulling out a handkerchief from his top pocket, he pats his face and puts it back while he seems to take a moment to size up his plan.
He clicks his fingers in mid-air like he just had a âeurekaâ moment and then abandons her, turning and heading toward me at top speed.
With a complete look of determination on that furrowed brow, an overly serious expression, he dashes at me, crossing the bay quickly and without hesitation.
Then he opens my door and gestures with flicking hands for me to come with him. His face is almost beet red and soaked with sweat.
He looks like heâs just run a marathon.
âWhatâs going on?â I eye him warily, unsure how to feel about his current behavior and try to figure out if heâs drunk. Heâs breathless as hell and can barely talk.
After blowing out an incoherent sound that I assume was words, he gestures again for me to follow.
I shrug and do it. I donât see any reason not to.
Heâs proven himself to be a half-decent human who isnât out to hurt me, and a voice at the back of my mind is telling me this is how I get close to Sierra.
As soon as he knows Iâm with him, he turns on his heel, and we head back to her.
âHelp me⦠here to here,â he wheezes and motions from her bed to the new one he wheeled over when we get in her room.
His voice is low and labored, and heâs struggling to get sound out.
Heâs definitely been running about like a maniac before coming down here, and I can feel his heart rate pulsing rapidly in the air.
Heâs composing himself as he works, but itâs obvious heâs not in the best physical shape.
I look at our sleeping beauty, surprised by how unwell she looks and a lot less ethereal.
Sierra, up close, looks like a porcelain doll, so silently still and unresponsive, with flushed, rosy cheeks on a milky whiteness.
Dark lashes fan her face under smooth dark brows, and I can immediately see Colton in her features.
I donât argue but take her upper arms under her armpits as firmly as possible without hurting her and lift her over while he gets her legs.
Sheâs light, surprisingly so, nothing to her, and painfully thin as the blankets pull away, and I see her body under her flimsy medical gown.
Her skin is almost translucent from lack of sunlight, yet she seems so very warm and alive, and Iâm convinced she will open her eyes at any moment.
Itâs unnerving, and I canât stop staring at her face as we place her on the new bed. I brush her dark hair from her brow as he tends to her limbs and tubes and settles her neatly.
âWhat are we doing?â I whisper it back, keeping my voice hushed as itâs pretty apparent with the lack of helpers heâs not meant to be doing this.
As soon as he fully arranges her on the gurney, he takes a moment to inhale, calm his breathing by pressing a hand to his chest, and points at the door.
âWeâre taking her and leaving. I drugged⦠fixed⦠phewâ¦,â he struggles, wiping his brow with the back of his hand, and takes another exaggerated breath.
Heâs annoying me to the point of getting frustrated with his lack of vocabulary, and he tries again. I raise my brows at him and throw an âand?â look his way.
âI drugged dinner. We donât have much time. A few hours at the most,â he wheezes and returns to picking up tubes and arranging them around her hurriedly.
âYou did what?â I gawk at him.
Heâs this unassuming feeble little doctor who wouldnât stand up to Deacon earlier, and now it registers how quiet this place is when heâs making so much noise with carts and beds and no oneâs appeared.
My face pales as my blood drains away, and my brain catches up with exactly whatâs happening.