A figure in white moves at the edge of my vision, clipboard tucked against their chest.
“He isn’t supposed to be awake.”
“Doctor… is he… smiling?”
Fingers pry my eyelid open, a harsh beam of light burning away what little I can see. Low voices murmur over me, blending, as the world tilts and slides, my thoughts drifting off on a wave of painkiller-soaked euphoria.
The sound of her voice is still in my head, echoing like a wound that refuses to close. My chest tightens. My heart twists.
“Hey.”
The voice cuts through, quiet and steady.
I turn my head, slow and careful. Chace stands in a doorway, then crosses the room with soft steps that don’t match the pain in my chest. His eyes are bloodshot, jaw tight, the kind ofexhaustion that comes from too much loss, too much guilt, not too little sleep.
“I-I had a dream…”
“Oh?”
“Y-you were there. Mac too. Logan. And the bald one…he was Glynda’s magic bubble…”
A breath of laughter slips from Chace. Soft, rough around the edges. “Don’t think Sam would’ve minded being ridden byArianna. Real glad you can still chat shit. We’ll get you some ruby slippers.”
He settles on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle me, eyes flicking over the monitors before coming back to my face. “Doctors said you gave them a fright, waking up with the ventilator still in. Thought they were about to have to strap you down.”
“Y-you look like shit.” My voice scrapes out of me, raw and broken, every syllable sending fresh fire through my ribs like glass grinding together.
“I look better than you, you fuckface,” he says, but the grin doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“W-where is Seraphina?” The word barely makes it past my cracked lips. My mouth feels like sandpaper and ash.
Chace stills.
For a second, the room feels too quiet, like even the machines are holding their breath.
His jaw tightens. His gaze drops to the floor, then lifts again, heavier now.
“I’m not going to sugarcoat it, brother,” he says quietly. “Seraphina’s missing.”
The words hit harder than the knife ever did.
After everything.
After the blood. The fucking miracle of still being alive.
That culty-cunt took her.
The air leaves me in a rush, jagged, stolen. “What?”
He drags a hand through his hair, glances toward the window like maybe the world outside can fix this. “She disappeared the night everything went down…the dogs, too. No trace.”
My heart stutters, stabbing pain ricocheting sharper than any wound. “How long?”
“Ten days.”
Ten days.Ten days my wife’s been out there—alone, hurt, terrified, maybe worse.
“Nothing?” My voice cracks. “No call, no trace, nothing?”
