ALEX
It hasto be the meds. Why else would he say something so… impossible? He knows my heart belongs to Elijah. We’ve talked about this.
As I work to untangle the messy braid in his hair, a few strands slip free. It must’ve looked beautiful when he first styled it. Complicated. Purposeful. I hope Gabriel noticed the effort—this braid was anything but simple. Meera used to braid her hair in a similar way. It was fascinating to watch the dexterity in her fingers work through thick sections of hair with a quiet kind of magic.
Noah’s lips twitch as he tries for a smile, and I run my thumb along the corners of his mouth, softening the frown. His dark lashes flutter, fighting sleep—but the weight is too much. Hislids lower slowly, like blankets being pulled over those pretty blue eyes.
“Noah,” I whisper, and his eyes flutter in response.
I reach down to take his hand, but startle when a throat clears behind me. I jump, quickly releasing my grip.
“Good afternoon, gentleman.”
A tall, middle-aged Black man in a white lab coat steps into the room. He holds a clipboard snuggly against his chest, his smile polite and easy.
“I’m Dr. Belize. You must be Alex?”
I rise to shake his hand. It’s warm—steady and reassuring.
“So,” he says, walking over to the IV pole and capping off the line. “I’m going to release Noah once the medication starts to wear off.” He checks his watch. “It shouldn’t be too much longer—maybe half an hour.”
I nod, not really sure what I should say. Or even why I’m still here. Should I ask him to get Gabriel?
“As you are aware, Noah sees a psychiatrist here at the hospital.”
Nope. Totally unaware.
He flips a page. Then another. His eyes skim the clipboard. “My staff tried contacting his sister, but no luck so far.” He looks up. “No surprise there.”
This time, I nod with a hum.
Fuck. Where is Gabriel?
He raises a brow and waits.
For what, I’m not sure. Was I supposed to say something?
I wipe my sweaty palms over my thighs. I vaguely remember Noah mentioning a sister—maybe? I flex my fingers, trying to recall anything he said about his family. Idoremember him saying his mom lives in France. Gave him the chocolate pie recipe. That was real. Wasn’t it? Maybe his sister’s there too?
I take a shot. “She lives in France,” I mumble. Could be true. Could be total bullshit. I have no idea.
“Of course.” Dr. Belize nods, though there’s hesitation in his voice. He flips through the thick stack of papers again. “Noah still struggles with the death of his family, as I’m sure you’re aware.”
Okay.What?
Didn’t hejustsay they were trying to contact his sister? And I’mpositiveNoah said his mom lives in France—she gave him the damn pie recipe. I know I’m not crazy. Oh, who the hell knows at this point? MaybeI’mthe one who needs a psychiatrist.
I run my fingers through my hair. “They’re in France,” I mumble again, far less confident this time. Honestly, I don’t know if they’re dead or alive. I don’t knowanything.
And why the hell am I still standing here pretending I do?
“Yes, of course,” the doctor mutters, scribbling something down.
Great. What is this guy smoking? Whatever it is, I need some.
“We gave Noah an injection of diazepam for his anxiety,” he continues.
Okay, perfect. Right up my alley. I’ll take some too… because my nerves certainly are tap-dancing on the edge of a breakdown.
