Page 75 of Mated To The King's Gamma
“Yeah, let’s go,” I tell him, tossing my arm over Dustin’s shoulder, when I hear a voice behind me, making me stop.
“Abbie, are you okay?” Gannon asks, and I peer over at them; her eyes are at the forest edge, though she startles, looking up at Gannon.
“Sorry, I thought I saw something,” Abbie says, and I peer around, not seeing anything. Dustin and I walk ahead a little.
“Saw what?” Gannon asks her.
“Nothing, I am being silly; my mind is playing tricks on me,” she laughs nervously.
“Well, if it’s silly, you have no issues telling me, then,” Gannon quips, and she sighs heavily.
“Abbie?” Gannon asks, and this time, Dustin stops, peering back at her.
“Might it be the sire bond thing?” Dustin suggests, but her next words send my blood cold.
“It’s nothing; it’s impossible, and you’ll laugh,” she says, and Gannon gives her a stern look. “I thought I saw…” she shakes her head and sucks in a breath. “I thought I saw my grandmother,” she laughs, rubbing her temples. Gannon tugs her closer.
“With everything going on, it’s normal to see things,” he tells her.
“I know it’s impossible…” Her words turn to background noise as my eyes nervously scan the forest. But that’s the thing, it’s not impossible. I know because when I went back to bury Vivian’s body, she wasn’t there. I swallow thickly when Gannon drops his hand on my shoulder.
“Are you alright, brother?” he asks, and I force a smile on my face.
“Just thinking about our skewered friend,” I chuckle, and Dustin peers up at me.
“What’s going on?” Dustin asks as we head toward where the camp is to help pack up.
“Nothing I can’t handle,” I answer.
36
The world feels wrong. It’s not pain. It’s not fear. It’s just... off. Like I’m wearing someone else’s body, moving through their skin, borrowing their breath. My heartbeat echoes in my ears—too strong, too steady—as if it belongs to someone else, and I’m merely borrowing its rhythm. I’ve died before, but never like this. Never with such clarity on the other side.
I remember darkness. Not the kind that falls when you close your eyes, but the kind that swallows you whole. Cold seeped through my essence, not just touching skin but permeating deeper—into bone, into thought, into my soul. There was that strange sensation of slipping between states, like walking through a door that shouldn’t exist. One moment I was Abbie, broken and dying; the next, I was something else entirely—neither here nor there, suspended between the person I was and whatever I was becoming.
I don’t remember the actual moment I came back. Just the gasp—my own, tearing through my throat like I’d been underwater for too long. Air burned as it flooded my lungs, sweet fire and salvation. And then, sound rushed in: Gannon’s broken sobbing, louder somehow than my own racing heart.
“Abbie,” he kept saying, over and over, his voice cracked and raw.
My name in his mouth was all I heard, while Liam was pulling me back from wherever I’d drifted. His hands—those strong, gentle hands—cradled my face, trembling against my cheeks.
I came back to him. To warmth. To love. To a life that somehow felt both borrowed and more authentically mine than before.
And something inside me... cleared.
The thoughts in my head used to be a tangled mess of anguish—memories wrapped in barbed wire, fears layered with dread, self-hatred woven through everything like a poisonous thread. Always there, always loud: Kade’s hands at my throat. Mrs. Daley’s hissed insults. The butcher’s cruel touch. My own reflection, twisted with disgust.
They’re still there. I can see them if I look. But they’re quieter now. It’s as if dying filtered out the static, leaving behind only what matters.
I realize death isn’t freedom at all—it’s just another doorway. Another transition.
Home was never on the other side of dying.
Home is Gannon’s arms wrapped around me, solid and warm. Home is Tyson’s innocent trust as he curls against my side. Home is this strange new clarity, this second chance that shouldn’t be possible.
I turn my head slightly, watching Gannon’s face in sleep. The worry lines between his brows haven’t fully smoothed away, even in rest. He barely leaves my side—as if afraid I might slip away again if he closes his eyes too long.
My fingers reach up, touching his jaw. His stubble is rough against my fingertips, and the sensation sends a shiver through me—a reminder that I’m here, I’m real, I’m still alive.
