Page 127 of Pack Scratch Fever
I manage to move my head a little and observe the scratch. It’s still red, but the concerning part is the little blisters of fluid that have formed around it.
“Oh,” I mumble. “That doesn’t look good.”
“Piper, this looksawful. Does it hurt to move your neck?”
“Kind of.”
“What the hell is wrong with you?” she demands, pulling her phone from her pocket. Her sweet violet scent has turned smoky and ashy with distress. “I’m calling an ambulance.”
I try to shake my head but fail. “That’s dramatic. I just want to sleep. Why aren’t you at the coffee shop?”
Blair places a hand on my forehead. “What?”
“Your shift. You were in an apron.” I start to close my eyes, and Blair taps my cheek.
“Don’t you dare go back to sleep on me.” Her voice breaks. “You have to stay awake.”
“No.”
But Blair grips my arm, forcing me to stay sitting upright while she talks to emergency services.
I hear bits and pieces of her conversation, but I’m half asleep.
I can’t concentrate on anything except my headache and stiff neck.
All I want is to go back to sleep.
That way, I won’t have to remember Poe, Avery, Maddox, or anything else that matters to me.
Blair keeps poking and prodding me every time I’m close to falling fully asleep, though. She even throws water at me at one point, soaking my shirt again.
“Stay. Awake,” she growls.
More voices fill my bedroom, and I catch a whiff of orange and cloves.
Alphas.
But it’s not my Alphas that are speaking to Blair.
My Alphas aren’t placing me onto a stretcher and loading me into an ambulance.
That’s the last thought I have before I finally drift off to sleep, sirens echoing in my mind.
My hospital room isnice.
I’m attached to a bunch of different cords, which is irritating, yet the bed is much comfier than the mattress in my apartment.
Constantbeepsfill my ears, but whatever medicine they hooked into my IV helps keep me comfortable and unbothered.
I have a spacious room to myself, which includes a bathroom in the opposite corner. Blair sits on a floral sofa to my right, wringing her hands. Her purse is on the small plastic table in front of her.
“Are you awake finally?” she asks.
I keep my eyes half open due to the brightness of the fluorescent lights. “I’ve been awake. We’ve been talking.”
“You haven’t said one word since we were at your apartment,” she says slowly. “You’re likely having hallucinations and brain fog from the infection.”
When I stare at Blair blankly, she motions to me. “Your hand. They think you had cat scratch fever, and that the wound got infected.
