Chapter 5 Nightmares
Aelira’s POV
My heart pounds, wild and desperate, as I tear through the hospital corridor toward my mother’s healing room. The nurse’s urgent words echo in my skull, each syllable a hammer blow. The sterile hallway stretches ahead, endless and blinding under harsh fluorescent lights. Daelor’s footsteps echo behind me, but they sound far away, as if he’s moving through some parallel reality. All I can do is run. All I can do is reach her.
I lurch to a stop at the threshold, my shoes skidding against the tile. Red—so much blood—saturates the white floor, blooming out from beneath the bed. The metallic tang slams into me, sharp and nauseating, twisting my stomach. My vision blurs, dark specks flickering at the edges. My knees give out.
Daelor’s arms close around me, solid and sure. “I’ve got you,” his voice rumbles, low and steady, anchoring me as everything else unspools. “She’ll be alright, Aelira.”
But the truth is written in scarlet. Doctors and nurses cluster around my mother’s fragile body, their voices clipped, urgent. Her skin is almost translucent, veins blue and stark beneath the surface. Blood soaks her gown, vivid and damning.
“She saw the news and became agitated,” a nurse explains, glancing nervously between Daelor and me. “The stress triggered a major episode. She’s lost a dangerous amount of blood.”
Dr. Nyven Leyric bursts in, his silver hair wild, the calm usually etched into his every line now replaced by a fierce, urgent focus.
“We need to take her to surgery—now,” he says, all professionalism, voice taut with command. “She’s crashing fast.”
I can only watch as they wheel my mother away, her small body dwarfed by the bed, the disease that’s been devouring her now fueled by a public humiliation she never deserved. This is the cost—the wounds Alarion cut into my life, now bleeding out through the woman who gave me everything.
My hands tremble as I pull out my phone. Alarion should be here. Not with Cyrinne. Not absent.
The line rings—once, twice, three times—then connects. But it isn’t Alarion’s voice.
“Hello?” Cyrinne’s melodic tone slithers through the line, cool and sweet and utterly wrong.
“Cyrinne?” I barely recognize my own voice, thin and raw. “Why do you have Alarion’s phone?”
“Oh, Aelira.” Her sympathy is as fake as spun sugar. “Alarion stepped out to find some rare herbs—he left his phone with me so I wouldn’t miss anything important.”
She says it so casually, as if staking her claim. As if I am nothing.
“My mother’s in emergency surgery,” I manage, voice splintering. “She saw the news about you and Alarion.”
She pauses, just long enough to let the knife twist. “I’m so sorry to hear that, truly. I’ll tell Alarion as soon as he’s back.”
The call ends. I stand there, phone pressed to my ear, tears streaming silently down my face, the world tilting beneath me.
“Aelira.” Daelor’s voice reaches through the fog, gentle but insistent. He’s kneeling in front of me, gray eyes filled with a softness I don’t expect. “Come on. Sit down before you fall.”
He helps me to a row of hard plastic chairs, his hand warm and unyielding at my elbow. I don’t have the energy to protest, don’t have the heart to care about what’s proper. My wolf, Eiryn, curls inside me, whimpering for comfort, not dominance.
“Cyrinne answered his phone,” I whisper, staring at nothing. “They’re together.”
Daelor doesn’t rush to fill the silence. When he does speak, it’s measured, even. “Focus on your mother. The rest can wait.”
He stays with me through the endless, agonizing hour. He doesn’t try to fix it, doesn’t ask me to explain, doesn’t offer hollow reassurances. His presence is a quiet, steady thing—something to cling to as the world cracks open.
At last, Dr. Leyric reappears, surgical gown streaked with fatigue but his eyes less frantic than before.
“She’s stable,” he announces, peeling off his cap. “We’ve stopped the bleeding and stabilized her, but she’s very weak. She’ll need absolute rest, Aelira.”
Relief crashes over me, tidal and overwhelming, wringing more tears from my eyes. “Can I see her?”
“Briefly,” he nods. “She’s sleeping.”
I look to Daelor, uncertain, but he reads my hesitation and answers before I can speak. “Go. I’ll be here.”
Inside, my mother seems impossibly small—a ghost of the strong woman who raised me. Machines beep quietly around her, the only proof she’s still fighting. Her hair, streaked silver, fans across the pillow. I take her hand, careful not to disturb the IV.
“I’m here, Mother,” I whisper, stroking her hair. “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”
Sitting there, the truth closes in. Alarion, the mate I once believed chosen by fate, has betrayed me so thoroughly my mother nearly died from the fallout. The bond that once felt like salvation now feels like an iron collar choking me with every breath.
Tomorrow, I’ll confront him. If he can’t explain, I’ll do what I never thought I could—I’ll sever our mate bond, no matter what it means for me.
The thought rips through me, raw and jagged. I have loved Alarion—truly loved him, believed our wolves’ recognition was a blessing from the moon. Now I wonder if it was only a curse.
Has he ever really let Cyrinne go? I remember the way his gaze would drift when she entered a room, the pride in his voice when he spoke of her. Cyrinne’s break with Beta Draven erased the last barrier between them. If I don’t act now, I’ll be the one left behind, discarded on his terms.
Lost in my ache, I barely hear the door open.
“Little sister?”
Jornic stands in the doorway, tall and broad-shouldered, amber eyes shadowed with worry. He takes in my tear-streaked face and our mother’s pale form in an instant.
“Jornic.” His name breaks from me on a sob.
He’s across the room in two strides, pulling me into his arms. The scent of earth and leather, comfort and home, wraps around me.
“What happened?” His voice is all steel and fire.
Between broken breaths, I tell him about the news report, Alarion and Cyrinne, Mother’s collapse.
Jornic’s jaw clenches, eyes burning with righteous fury. “I’ll kill him.”
“No.” I grab his arm, desperate. “That won’t fix anything.”
He’s never trusted Alarion. He saw the fault lines in my mating long before I did.
“Bring him here tomorrow,” Jornic says, voice brooking no argument. “He needs to set this straight—and reassure Mother that it’s nothing.”
I nod, too drained to protest. “I will.”
He stays until a nurse gently reminds us visiting hours are over. He presses a kiss to my forehead, his presence a balm.
“Call me if anything changes. I’ll be nearby.”
Leaving the ward, I’m startled to see Daelor still waiting, his powerful frame folded into a chair that hardly contains him.
“You stayed,” I say, my voice small.
He rises, stretching the tension from his shoulders. “I said I would.”
Something in his unwavering steadiness threatens to undo me. I blink hard.
“Can I give you a ride home?” he asks, careful not to press.
I nod, too tired to think.
Twenty minutes later, his SUV sweeps up the winding drive to the Riven family estate—Thunder Pack’s ancestral home, the place Alarion and I still claim, even though our official quarters are at the pack house.
Elysande Riven, my mother-in-law, opens the front door before we’re halfway up the walk. Her gentle eyes widen as she recognizes Daelor at my side.
“Alpha King,” she greets, uncertain, scanning our faces for clues. “This is…unexpected.”
Daelor bows his head. “Mrs. Riven. I went to the pack house looking for Alarion, but he wasn’t there. I met Aelira and brought her home.”
Worry creases Elysande’s brow. “Alarion isn’t with you, Aelira? I thought you were visiting your mother together.”
Shame and anger knot inside me. I can’t meet her gaze.
She recovers quickly. “Please, come in. I was just about to serve lunch. You’ll join us, Alpha King?”
I half-expect Daelor to decline—these family meals have grown rare, awkward since my mating. But he surprises me.
“I’d be delighted,” he says, warmth in his voice. “I’ve missed your cooking, Elysande.”
She brightens, pleased, and leads us inside. As we enter, a car pulls into the drive behind us.
Elysande glances past us, hope lighting her face as she spots Alarion’s vehicle. But that hope curdles to shock when the passenger door opens—and someone else steps out.