Chapter 137
Ellie POV
I wake up choking on thirst.
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My throat scrapes raw, like I’ve been breathing dust instead of air. Tongue thick and useless as I blink up at the dark ceiling, disoriented for a long, terrifying second where I don’t remember where I am or how I got here.
My head throbs, pressure building behind my eyes. That’s when I notice I’m laying in a pool of my own sweat, my sheets and pj’s soaked. When I try to sit up, the room tilts violently, the shadows stretching and blurring as if the walls are breathing.
“Okay,” I whisper to no one, my voice barely there. “Okay. You’re fine.”
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and immediately regret it.
Pain flares hot and bright, lightning-fast, and I grab the mattress to steady myself until the worst of the spin passes. My pulse hammers in my ears.
I just need water. That’s all. A glass of water. Easy enough.
The hallway feels too long.
I press my hand to the wall as I move, fingertips sliding over familiar grooves and picture frames, grounding myself one step at a time. Every footfall sends a jolt up my spine. My vision tunnels, dark creeping in at the edges, and I swallow hard against the
rising nausea.
I’m halfway down the stairs when it happens.
The pain detonates.
There’s no warning, just a searing spike that steals the breath from my lungs and turns my legs to something useless and wrong. My scream gags into a gasp, my hand slipping from the banister as my knees buckle beneath me.
For a split second, I’m weightless.
Then the world lurches.
The stairs rush up, shadows fracturing, my head ringing as I tumble forward. Then everything goes cold and quiet and very, very far away. The darkness taking me before I hit the bottom.
I wake to voices.
Sharp ones, that are loud. Angry.
For a moment, I think I’m still dreaming, stuck somewhere between pain and fog, but then my body reminds me exactly where I
- The white lights and clean smell gives it away.
Everything hurts. Not in one place, everywhere. My head throbs in slow, punishing waves, my chest feels tight, and when I try to shift even an inch, something in my ankle flares so hot I gasp.
“–I’m telling you, she was fine last week,” my stepfather snaps. “Perfectly fine. She walked, she ate, she went to school. You don’t just this doesn’t just happen. We need her healthy! This is the worst time for this!”
“I don’t care if it’s rare,” my mother cuts in, voice trembling. “You’re healers. That’s your job. Please! Help my baby!”
I open my eyes fully.
White ceiling. Too bright. I’m wrapped in bandages-arms, ribs, one leg elevated–and when I look down and see my ankle, swollen and angry beneath the wrappings, a hollow fear opens in my chest.
Chaptor RN
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That injury never healed right. Not after the mountain.
Great.
I make a small sound without meaning to. A breath, maybe. A whimper.
My mother is at my side instantly.
“Oh-Ellie,” she says, grabbing my hand like I might vanish if she lets go. Her fingers are cold, shaking. “Sweetheart, don’t move. Please don’t move. Just wait, we’re getting you help.”
I want to ask what’s wrong with me, if they figured out anything new, but my throat feels thick, my tongue heavy. The room spins slightly as I try to focus.
“We ran every scan,” one of the healers says, carefully, like they’re afraid my stepfather might explode. “Blood, nerve pathways, pain receptors. Nothing explains this progression.”
“That’s not an answer,” my stepfather barks. “That’s an excuse.”
Another wave of pain rolls through me, deeper this time, and I squeeze my mother’s hand harder without thinking. The arguing escalates, my step father starting to lose it when-
The room changes.
The arguing doesn’t stop right away, but something shifts, like air pressure dropping before a storm. Footsteps approach, slower than the others, measured. The healers straighten instinctively.
I turn my head just enough to see him.
The chief healer.
Doctor ArmStrong.
He’s old. Older than anyone else in the room, his face carved with lines so deep they look permanent, his hair thin and white beneath his cap. He simply steps to my bedside, ignoring the stiff bodies around him and looks at me like he’s not just seeing what’s wrong, but what’s missing.
The room goes quiet.
“Hello, love,” his voice like a children’s book story teller. “Let’s get you set.”
He checks my pulse, my eyes, my ankle. His fingers are cool and steady, humming softly under his breath, thoughtful, but
distant.
Minutes pass. Or seconds. I can’t really tell at this point.
Finally, he straightens.
“So…do you have a fated mate?”
The question lands like a crack in glass.
My mother stiffens. “Why,” she demands, “does that matter right now?”
The healer doesn’t look at her. His eyes stay on me, unreadable.
“Call him,” he says simply. “And you’ll see.”
