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“Where the fuck is Nora?” I roar. My throat burns, my tongue dryer than sandpaper, and I hate how weak I feel.
“Nora?” Kennedy demands, turning his head with a surprised expression on his face. Fucking cunt.
There’s genuine surprise in his face, and that only makes my lion and I more annoyed. She’s not here.
What the fuck happened to her?
Where did she go?
I rip the IV out of my arm, ignoring the brief flash of pain, and letting the blood just flow loose. I push on the bed, cringing as my biceps shake, and manage to sit myself up.
Kennedy comes to my side, but before he can offer me a hand—which I would not have taken—someone else comes into the room.
My eyes dart to the older man, and all I can see is a red haze surrounding him. Who the fuck is he?
Is he trying to attack whilst I’m vulnerable?
“Alpha Phoenix, please, sit down,” a nurse says, and I missed that she was even in the room. She reaches for me, trying to calm me down, but I don’t let her touch me.
She’s not my mate, and I’d never disrespect Nora by letting some random woman touch me.
My lion is furious, desperately trying to overtake me, to hunt down those who dared touch my mate. I might have killed all of the fucking hunters who dared try to take me alive, but that didn’t mean I got through it unharmed.
“You’ve been out for three days, son,” the man says, and I immediately flinch. Even my lion pauses in his anger as we consider his words.
Three days.
That means today is Monday, the day I’m meant to be getting back to the pride with Nora.
Shit. They’re going to be terrified.
What I missed in my anger fuelled glaring was that this man is wearing a long, white jacket with a stethoscope around his neck. He’s a wolf, and is about sixty-years-old with greying hair.
I meet his eyes, assessing him, but I was wrong there, too. This man is not a threat. Neither my lion nor I sense any hostility from him.
“Who are you?” I demand.
“I’m the doctor here,” he says. “Gerard Smith.”
I don’t recognise the name, but that doesn’t mean anything. He’s not a threat. Even in my weakened state, I can take out a man with cancer.
“He’s our pack doctor,” Kennedy says, and I nod.
“So, three days?”
“Yes,” Dr Smith says, coming into the room properly. He’s got a clipboard in one hand, a stethoscope around his neck, and a tablet in the other. “So, who is this Nora you’re shouting about?”
There’s a hesitancy in his voice here, the Northern twang exaggerating the words, and I know he’s worried about the connection I have to Nora.
As he should be.
“My mate,” I say, and panic fills his face as acceptance seems to wash over him.
An Alpha is not a good man to cross on a good day.
But an unhinged Alpha on a mission to find his mate? It’s suicide.
“You crashed your car,” Kennedy says, attempting to take control of a situation he’s got no fucking part in. “It was by luck we found you. You were passed out in your shifted form, close to our borders, and one of our enforcers found you.”
