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He shakes his head. “No injuries there.”
Good. Means there’s nothing to stop me from running.
“And a concussion. How is your vision?” he asks.
I glance at a little torch tucked in the front of his white coat, and his stethoscope hanging from around his neck. Surely, he’s supposed to check those things for himself instead of just asking me. Isn’t he?
“It’s okay.”
“No double vision, blurriness, or—”
“No. Nothing.”
“Then you’re even luckier than I thought before. Not everyone recovers from that severe of a concussion. Especially in a week.”
Everything in me stills. “A week?”
My heart pounds so hard that I wince when it triggers a new sharp pain in my ribs.
He nods. “A week. That’s how long you’ve been unconscious.”
I return my gaze to the ceiling as panic surges. This isn’t good. At all. That Rylan hasn’t found me and dragged me back yet is in itself a miracle. A week is more than enough time for a wolf to hunt prey, as he was so fond of telling me back when I thought I could escape.
And the cab driver. He’d barely driven me two miles before Rylan was stepping in front of the car, forcing him to halt.
Blood and piss.
I swallow hard.
If I hadn’t run, maybe he wouldn’t have decided on the chain and the handcuffs beside his bed so he could always keep a close watch on me. Maybe he still would have done it anyway.
“Your friend wasn’t as lucky,” the doctor continues, “he—”
“He wasn’t my friend,” I interrupt, my voice cold.
Silence.
“Well, whoever he was, he didn’t make it. The car pinned him to the riverbed, and he drowned before anyone could get him out.”
Shifters can drown. Who knew?
From all the things I’ve seen Rylan and the others do, I’d have thought they were so invincible that they could live through a stabbing, drowning, a clubbing over the head, and get up with little more than a headache. Until one of his pack would do something that made Rylan rip out their throats. No one ever got up from that.
I’d get papercuts from flicking through the Sunday papers in bed, and my lips would crack in winter from the cold. When I’d stub my toe on the coffee table, sometimes I’d have a bruise for the rest of the day, but never Rylan. His skin was perfect, unmarked, and unscarred.Always. Being born a shifter had its benefits, he would tell me with a smile, and after he turned me, I’d know those benefits too.
Well, that never happened.
Would Rylan have lived because he was born a shifter instead of being turned like Felix? I don’t know.
But they’re still men, if only sometimes, Saige. And all men die.
I don’t respond to the doctor’s revelation. What else is there to say?
“Is there anyone you want me to call? We didn’t have a name, so—”
“No.” My eyes close. “There’s no one.” Well, there’s Dad, but since I have no cash to give him for booze, he won’t care.
Felix is dead.
