***
The next time awareness surfaces, it comes with more clarity. Still fragmented but less distant.
Voices. Movement nearby. Someone touching me. Adjusting something that pulls at my arm.
My dragon stirs. Sluggish but present. Sensing threat.
A growl. Low. Dangerous. Wolf energy flooding the space.
“Don’t! Don’t touch my mate!” Female voice. Sharp with warning. Protective. Possessive.
“I’m just checking his IV line—” Another voice. Uncertain. Afraid.
The growl deepens. Not human anymore. Pure wolf warning.
“Get out!”
Footsteps retreat quickly. Door opening. Closing.
The wolf energy settles slightly but doesn’t fade. Still present. Still guarding.
A word floats through my consciousness. Spoken softly. Almost to herself.
Mate.
Did I hear that? Or is it wishful thinking filtering through delirium?
I try to hold onto awareness. Try to surface fully. But exhaustion drags me down. My body needs more time. More healing.
The warmth returns to my hand. The wolf scent surrounds me. Familiar. Comforting.
I let go. Sink back into healing darkness.
***
The third time I wake, awareness comes more completely.
Pain is still there, but manageable. Specific now rather than pervasive. My back. My side. My ribs. Individual injuries I can identify.
My dragon is stronger. Not healed but actively working. Knitting tissue. Mending bone. The slow, steady process of draconic healing.
I force my eyes open. Light floods in. Too bright. I blink against it. Once. Twice. Vision clearing.
White ceiling. Sterile walls. Medical equipment surrounding my bed. Monitors beeping steadily. IV lines running into my arms.
Aurora medical facility. Has to be. I can’t imagine they’d take me anywhere else.
I turn my head. The movement costs effort, but I manage it.
Nadia is there. Sitting in a chair pulled close to the bed. Her hand wrapped around mine. She’s staring at me with eyes that are red-rimmed and exhausted.
When she sees me looking at her, tears spill over.
“Jericho.” My name breaks on her lips.
“Hey.” My voice is rough. Barely recognizable as mine. “You’re crying.”
She laughs. The sound is half sob. “You were dying. You’ve been unconscious for two days. I thought—” She stops. Can’t finish.
