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.
