Page 63 of Puck Your Friend
His voice holds authority. I clench my jaw, swallowing down my protests. There’s no choice but to head back. Each step feels wrong, pulling me farther from her.
We’re going to see her first thing.That’s what I have to keep telling myself.
Present Day…
The back of the ambulance is cramped. Fluorescent lighting hums overhead. Frankie lies strapped to the gurney. A shallow beep tracks her heart. One of the EMTs calls something in over the radio. The other adjusts the IV line. I stay out of the way, sitting on the side bench, knees jacked up high from the limited space.
Her hand stays in mine. I haven’t let go since we loaded her in.
It feels like we’re losing her all over again.We didn’t see her again after that night. She went with the counselor and then she was gone.
We couldn’t find her anywhere. Not even a P.I., who Logan hired when he turned twenty and got his inheritance, could get information about her. By then, the camp had closed down and any paper trail with her information was gone.
I run my thumb across her knuckles. They’re too cold.
The Beta male EMT glances at her monitors. “Fever is still high, but her BP is dropping. She’s not stabilizing.”
I lean closer. “You’re gonna be okay. We can’t lose you again. Just hang on.”
“We’ve got less than five minutes. Alert the trauma team we need them at the door.”
The guy nods and speaks quickly into the radio. “ETA four minutes. Trauma team needed. Patient unresponsive. Female Omega. Suspected suppressant overdose. Unconfirmed Alpha presence.”
I look up. “Confirmed.”
The EMT turns halfway. “What?”
I adjust my grip on her hand and slide my other hand over hers. “She’s our scent match. We’re her pack.”
The woman glances over. “I don’t see bond marks.”
I shake my head. “Not yet. It’s new. But she’s ours.”
She looks at Frankie, then at me again. “Then you’ll need to stay close. They’re gonna want full scent contact once she’s out of danger.”
I nod. “I’m not leaving.”
We hit the hospital fast. The brakes jolt me forward, and I finally let go of her hand as the EMTs take off the brakes on the gurney and swing open the doors. A team meets us and helps lower it out of the ambulance.
“We’ve got her,” someone says outside.
I jump down as they wheel her away.
They move fast, pushing through the ER bay. I keep close to the side, my shoulder brushing the rail. I want to hold her again, but I force myself not to interfere. Inside the automatic doors, the temperature drops. The air smells like bleach and stress. Someone yells for a trauma bay to be cleared.
We round a corner. One of the EMTs reaches across Frankie to adjust the mask over her face. Then the gurney turns and slips from my reach as they go over a threshold.
A nurse holds out a hand, stopping me before I can follow. “You can’t go in. They need to work on her.”
“I need to be there.”
She softens. “Let them work. You can wait in the consult alcove over there.” She points behind me. “I’ll come find you the second I know more.”
I step back, chest heaving. My shirt clings to my spine.
She’s not dying. She can’t be.
I walk to the alcove and sit hard on the bench. My legs feel like they’re still moving, buzzing under the weight of adrenaline.
