“Make sure she eats and drinks,” I mutter under my breath. “Thanks, Doc.”
“I’ll come with you. Help take out the IVs.”
I give him another jerky nod, my mind moving a thousand miles a minute.
The drive on the golf cart is a blur. I floor it the entire way.
The access card feels slippery in my clammy hands as I dig it out of my pocket and scan it on the panel beside her cell. It buzzes open, and I shove the door open, immediately coughing as Mirabelle’s twisted perfume hits my nostrils.
It’s the scent of sickly sweet, rotting strawberries covered in corn syrup and lit on fucking fire.
The absolute pain and despair she’s feeling have seeped into every corner of that room. I’m sure it’s worked its way so far into the mattress that her twisted scent will never leave it.
I’ll burn it for her later.
Horror washes over me as I step up to her body. I wasn’t able to see much, with the tiny glass window of the door.
She’s unconscious right now. Probably for the better, considering the amount of pain she’s been in. She’s been stripped down to her bra and panties.
Her body is covered in a layer of her sweat, and slick glistens between her thighs.
Apparently, the Doc cut her clothes off of her on day two because she was begging so hard she basically lost her voice.
The guys and I were still at the fight weekend. God, I wish I were there for her.
If I were there, or maybe if I had brought her with us, this bullshit never would’ve happened.
I quickly start unlocking the padded leather restraints around her ankles. Red-hot rage pumps through my veins when I see the dark bruising underneath the cuffs.
She fought. Fought hard.
Dr. Stetson gets started removing her IVs, and a soft growl leaves my lips when I see the extensive bruising on her arms from the IVs.
“I had to move her IVs around a couple of times because she kept on struggling,” Dr. Stetson says apologetically.
“Yeah,” I grit out, working on uncuffing her wrists. There are similar bruises around her wrists.
Mirabelle’s eyes flutter open, and I have to bite back another low growl. It sounds nothing like an alpha’s growl, and it doesn’t carry any of the weight an alpha’s does, but I feel like it’s fitting for the situation.
Her eyes are glazed over. From the pain or from the drugged-up heat, I don’t know.
“Rowan?” She croaks out. Her voice is completely gone. My name is barely a whisper of air past her lips, but it’s still my name. She recognizes me. That’s a good sign.
“It’s me, Sugar. I’m here,” I say, lacing my hand with hers and squeezing.
It’s weak, but she squeezes my hand back, making relief wash over me.
“How does your nest sound?” I murmur, hefting her up into my arms.
Her eyes flutter shut as she lets out a groan of pain from the movement, but she nods against my neck.
“Okay, perfect,” I sigh, thankful she’s still responding to me.
“I’ll walk, no need to give me a ride,” Dr. Stetson says. “I need it after this whole ordeal.”
“Thanks for your help, Doc,” I say, nodding to him and heading towards the golf cart.
Mirabelle whimpers when I move to set her down on the bench, clinging to my t-shirt with the desperation of a sailor lost at sea.
