"I'm right fucking here, Doc. You can talk to me."
Chastised, Doc clears his throat before addressing Mona directly. "Forgive me. You're right. I'm used to addressing—" his gaze flicks to Grayson. But then shakes his head and says, "Thetests show evidence of a powerful spell in your bloodstream—an herbal compound designed to suppress your omega. Given the trace amounts still present, it suggests long-term exposure—years of consistent dosing. This aligns with what you mentioned earlier about being prescribed regular medication."
Mona's eyes dart back and forth, her lids fluttering as she processes what Doc just said. She tilts her head slightly, as if she's listening to someone speak. Beep, probably. After a curt nod, Mona retreats to the couch and tucks her knees to her chest.
Grayson is tense beside me, hasn't moved a muscle. I take a step toward Mona, but she shrinks back, making me freeze in place. Doc glances between us before approaching her cautiously.
She chews on her lip, converses with her wolf. Anxiety comes off her in waves, and it's so fundamentally wrong for an omega. My alpha surges forward, demanding I comfort her. When I move closer this time, she doesn't flinch. The couch dips as I settle in beside her, my fingers intertwining with hers.
Doc settles on his knees in front of her, deliberately positioning himself below her eyeline. "About your medication," he says gently. "I understand your earlier reluctance. But Mona, you came here seeking answers, remember? I believe I have them, but I need more information from you first."
"What do you want to know exactly?" she asks quietly, her voice a little broken.
"Do you remember anything about the bottles? The names? Where they came from?"
She shakes her head. "My dad gave it to me. It changed sometimes. The bottles, I mean. The labels. I stopped paying attention."
"And what did the pills look like?"
"Umm… clear caps. The insides—I mean, I don't know, Doc. What do you want me to say? The inside was brown. Or reddish. It was powder."
"Like a supplement?"
"Yeah. I usually took anywhere from five to ten a day. And if I felt too lethargic—some days I could barely get off the couch, just moving hurt—I'd call my dad and tell him. And he'd call my doctor, and they'd alter the dosage. I'd feel a little better. It was always like that, though. That was the cycle."
"Did you have a diagnosis?"
"Not really. Chronic fatigue. Fibromyalgia. That's what they told me. The symptoms didn't always fit, but the doctor said that everyone is different."
"Do you remember this doctor's name?"
"Sure. It was Dr. Foster. Leon Foster, I think. He was in the Lower East, off Bowery."
Doc nods and glances at Grayson, whose jaw clenches so tight I can hear his molars grinding. A vein throbs at his temple, and his eyes seem darker somehow. He's actively keeping his alpha dominance in check, but it's pulsing through the cracks, making the air feel tense and volatile. It's not the time for him to snap and punch a wall, and he fucking knows it.
We'll look for this doctor, but it's unlikely he was even a real physician. If not a witch himself, then he worked for them. He'll have vanished by now. But we will find him.
Someday, somehow. For what he's done to Mona, we will find him and make him pay.
"And you saw this same doctor your whole life?"
"As long as I can remember, yeah. Even when I was really young. I used to have trouble with the pills. I remember my dad cutting them open and stirring the insides into a juice box."
Rage like I've never known crawls through my skin, thinking of my mate as a tiny little girl, being poisoned and manipulated.The anger wraps around my heart like a fist. Grayson's alpha isn't helping, suffocating the room. It all culminates, squeezing in my chest like a balloon about to burst, and without realizing it, I hold her hand tighter, too. I apologize and loosen my grip, but Mona's not worried about her hand. It's the least of her problems.
She's thinking about this conversation.
What Doc's alluding to.
What this all means for her. About her entire life.
"Mona…"
"You think my dad was drugging me," she says quietly, pulling her hand from mine. Mona curls in on herself. The silence hangs there, heavy and burdened with the knowledge that our mate, when she was just a girl, was poisoned by her own father.
"I don't know for sure, Mona. But your wolfwassuppressed. Only a witch could do that. And it would require systemic, consistent effort. And if it began when you were young, it explains everything. Why your wolf never emerged. Your illness—which wasn't an illness at all. It was your body rejecting the magic. It was draining you."
After several long moments—and just when I think she's going to fall apart—Mona sits a little straighter on the couch.
