Page 90 of Rhys: and the girl who was always his

She blinks like the lights just got too bright. Her hand slides along the counter, searching for something to hold on to—only, nothing’s steady enough.

“Ally?”

She sways.

My stomach drops.

“Ally—”

And then shedrops.

Not a stumble. Not a slow sink. She just… folds. Her knees buckle, her body crumples, and I don’t think—I justmove.

“Ally!”

I’m at her side before she hits the floor, my arms wrapping around her limp body, catching her like my own life depends on it. The world around me sharpens and blurs all at once, panic prickling beneath my skin like electricity.

I lower her gently onto the cold tile, my knees scraping the floor, my hands shaking as they cradle her face.

“Baby, hey. Come on, wake up.” My voice is low, pleading, like if I speak softly enough, she’ll stir. “Ally, open your eyes. Please.”

She doesn’t move.

Her face is pale—toopale—and her lashes rest against her cheeks like she’s sleeping. But this isn’t sleep.

This is something else.

Something worse.

I can’t breathe.

“Call an ambulance!” I bark. Not sure who I’m talking to. The room spins around me, voices scrambling behind me, but all I can see is her.

I press two fingers to her neck. Her pulse is there—faint but steady.

“She’s breathing,” Chase says beside me, voice steadier than mine. He crouches low, his hand hovering near her shoulder. “She’s okay, man. She’s just out.”

But she’snotokay. She just had a medication change, and I should’ve noticed. Ishould’ve seen it.

My jaw tightens. I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear and brush my thumb along her cheek. Her skin is clammy and too cool beneath my touch.

“You’ve been pushing too hard,” I say softly. “And I let you.”

The minutes stretch like elastic, painful and slow until the distant cry of sirens breaks through the air like a knife. Red and blue lights flicker through the windows, too bright, too loud, tooreal.

When the paramedics rush in, I force myself to back away, though it feels like cutting off a limb. I stand, my legs unsteady, dragging a hand through my hair as I watch them descend on her—checking vitals, murmuring between each other in clipped, efficient voices.

Chase gives them a rundown on what has been going on and giving them the name of her new medications. He tells them everything they need to know to help her.

I hate this.

I hate not being able todosomething.

I hate that she looks small and breakable andnot Allylying there like that.

And then, finally, she moves.

Her lashes flutter. Her lips part on a quiet, strained breath.

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