Page 6 of Altius
Meanwhile, I picked at the rubber edging on the table, wondering if I could flee to the hallway before one—or both—of the guys caught me.
Our reactions baffled Chantal. “Did I miss something?”
“We haven’t had a chance to talk about her bloodwork yet,” Cal said, rubbing his stubbled jaw.
Wyatt forced himself to sit up straight, pale blue eyes staring at me with sudden determination. “And we’re not together.”
An unspoken but very much impliedyethung in the air between us.
“Well, then. My apologies.” Chantal quickly regrouped, shaking off the lingering awkwardness with a ladylike shimmy of her shoulders.
Then she projected my latest blood panels on the wall monitor.
I didn’t need more than a cursory glance to know I was in terrible shape. Even worse than I’d feared. My white blood cell count was too high, and my hormones were through the roof.
“The pharmacy gave you the generic version of your newest suppressant dosage.” Chantal pulled up my medication list. “That isnotwhat I ordered. Your seizure medication doesn’t mix well with generics. It metabolizes too quickly.”
“So, I haven’t been getting a full dose of my seizure meds for almost a week?”
The realization that I wasn’t at fault for winding up in the hospital slowly sank in, providing a surprising amount of relief.
I hadn’t screwed up after all.
Chantal nodded. “Which explains the seizure but not the severity of your heat spike.” She flipped through a few more charts, her expression unusually grim. “You’ve been on an intravenous suppressant drip for over twelve hours, but your temperature and hormone levels are still too high. Your blood pressure is elevated, and you’ve lost six pounds since your last appointment.”
“It’s just stress.”
She ignored my flimsy excuse and switched to yet another test result. “I’m also worried your liver might be inflamed. Are you taking extra pain medication to get through the day?”
“Now and then.”
Cal cut in. “At least two extra-strength pain relievers every four hours.”
Despite his customary professional tact, the words felt like betrayal. How dare he expose my coping methods so casually.
“And her sleep quality?” Chantal asked, directing the question to Cal.
To him. The alpha. Not to me, the actual patient, the omega sitting three feet away, whose health they were so glibly discussing as if I weren’t even in the room.
The one thing I hated more than having to talk about my accident was having my autonomy steamrolled because of its medical consequences.
No one knew what it was like, trapped in an endless cycle of frustration, being able to recall complex medical information yet unable to remember where I parked my car after a quick errand. The relentless calendar reminders to take my pills on time.
Working twice as hard as everyone around me to function at a comparatively normal level, while being ground down by near-constant pain.
Always living on the knife’s edge of failure.
Cal—my other half—understood my struggle better than anyone other than Kelsey. He should have taken my side.
At the very least, he should have kept his mouth shut and let me speak for myself.
Indignation burned deep in my chest. Bile rose in my throat. I choked, fighting the urge to unleash a verbal onslaught.
“Never sleeps more than five hours,” he said. “If she can manage that much.”
Cal caressed the side of my ankle, but I kicked his hand away.
It wasn’t enough.
