Page 89 of Fae Devoted
Johnnie sniffed—a human? Her eyelids flickered but refused to open on command.
Who are these people, and why can’t I remember?
Although warmly cocooned between a mound of blankets and an incredibly soft mattress, her body ached from head to toe. The bulk of the discomfort seemed to be centered on her hands and wrists. Her arms felt weighted and heavy. As if anchored to the silken sheets beneath her palms. She frowned. That wasn’t right either. The sheets at Remington’s hotel were cotton, weren’t they?
The harsh lighting in the room stabbed at her closed lids, and she groaned. Head pounding, Johnnie attempted to pull the covers over her eyes and gasped. Her wrists burned like hellfire. She sucked in a breath, her pulse throbbing in mad tempo with the unbearable pain, recollection coming at her in fast-moving snippets.
The Director. The Fae. The facility…
Jacob!
Struggling to sit up, she searched for their bond. The hated iron circling her wrists shifted with the jarring movement. Her head swam, and the edge of her vision darkened.
“Wait, let me help you.” Running water, then hurried steps coming closer. Hands slid under her armpits and tugged until Johnnie was propped against the cushioned headboard, then let her go.
“How long,” she asked through gritted teeth, eyes squeezed shut, saliva pooling in her mouth. She drew in several deep breaths through her nose and tried not to vomit.
“How long have you been unconscious?” A cool, wet washcloth was laid over her brow. “I don’t know. You were here when Charlie and I were brought into the room. That was about an hour ago.”
After being injected with what Dr. Richards admitted was an experimental truth serum and subjected to a battery of leading questions, Johnnie had blessedly passed out from the combination of drugs and iron poisoning without revealing a damn thing. The government couldn’t seem to grasp the concept of Clan or the strength of a pack bond. No one and nothing, with the exception of her Alpha or Príoh—and perhaps a relentless Elven Lord—could compel a magically bound Ferwyn to do or say anything they choose not to.
“Miss Hannah, is she gonna die like Mama did?”
“Oh, honey, no, but she’s not feeling very well right now.”
“Does her tummy hurt?”
Johnnie removed the damp cloth, holding in a groan as the cuffs rubbed against her abused skin.
“Wait, let me dim the lights before you attempt to open your eyes again.” The brightness lessened a moment later. “Better?”
“Yes, much.” Johnnie blinked, and the woman’s features came slowly into focus. Shoulder-length blond hair framed a pretty, square-shaped face with full lips, which were currently downturned, and troubled grayish-blue eyes.
“Time?”
“Around seven.”
“At night?”
The young girl standing behind Hannah giggled. She wore a ponytail, jeans, and a pastel pink sweater.
“Charlie, will you get the she-wolf a glass of water, please?”
Charlie…Charlotte.
“Yes, ma’am.” Charlotte nodded but ambled toward Johnnie and away from the open bathroom door, her sneakered feet shuffling across the plush carpeting.
Hannah’s arm shot out to act as a barrier between the brunette witchling and the king-sized bed. Attention neverleaving Johnnie, she urged in a calm but no-nonsense tone, “The water, Charlie.”
The air stank with worry and apprehension. Why was this woman so afraid of a she-wolf who could barely lift her head? Of any shifter at all?
“Yes,” Hannah cleared her throat, the skin around her large, expressive eyes pinched. “And it’s Tuesday if you were wondering.
Johnnie sagged against the padding at her back. She hadn’t been unconscious long.
“Thank you,” she said, then waited for the faucet to turn on before speaking. The witchling didn’t appear to have the same trepidation as Hannah regarding her presence, but Johnnie didn’t want to put any ideas in her impressionable head. “No Ferwyn would ever harm a child.”
No Ferwyn who wasn’t feral or under a Sídhe’s longtime control that is.
