I pause, watching her face.
Even asleep—or unconscious, more likely—she appears to be bracing for impact. Jaw clenched. Brows tight. Does she expect someone to shout at her the moment her eyes open?
I don’t like that.
I adjust the blanket around her and step back, trying to ignore the way the scent of her is already sinking into the room. Peach and sugary goodness with that rich molasses tang—a scent I remember too well, even after all this time.
She was never mine. Not fully.
But I wanted her to be.
And I never stopped aching for it.
For her.
I close the bedroom door behind me and lean against the frame, exhaling slowly, trying to clear the static from my head.It doesn’t work. Questions are already building, sharp and unwelcome, rattling around in my chest.
Why now?
Why like this?
Why didn’t she tell anyone?
And why, after everything, does holding her still seem to be something I was built to do?
I run a hand over my face and make my way to the kitchen, trying to keep my steps even. Once the kettle’s filled and set to boil, I reach for my phone.
There’s only one name I trust with something this important, and I don’t waste time second-guessing myself.
Dr. Jasper Quinn answers on the second ring.
“Beck?”
“I need help. I don’t know if you’ve heard…”
“About the accident? And Lo? Yeah, my pack told me.”
“Yeah,” I confirm. “She crashed into one of the Winterfest floats, right in the middle of the parade. Almost passed out in the street. She doesn’t look like she’s been doing well for a while, if I’m completely honest with you.”
Another pause, sharper this time. When he speaks again, his tone is more clinical, but I can hear the edge of concern threading through it. “Is she conscious?”
“Barely. I’ve got her at my place. Put her in the spare room. She hasn’t woken up yet, just stirred a little.”
“Don’t move her again unless you have to. Keep her warm and quiet. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
I grip the phone tighter, grounding myself. “What should I do until then?”
“If she wakes up, keep her calm. Don’t ask questions, don’t press her. If she’s been pushing through stress this long, her nervous system’s already on the edge. You can’t afford to triggeranything deeper. Omegas don’t bounce back from that kind of collapse without help.”
“I understand.”
And I do.
He hangs up, and I set the phone down on the counter as the kettle starts to scream.
She shouldn’t have come back here. This town has had it out for her. Whatever she was running from must have been bad if coming back to Honeysuckle Grove is the preferable option.
My inner Alpha growls at that. Is she in trouble? Is she running from something?
