Page 16 of Broken Rejected Mate

I’m still exhausted from the casting I did in the hospital, and my body feels more like an amalgamation of parts than a cohesive, capable thing. My muscles complain each time I attempt to use them. Even holding my head up drains my energy, a soft burning sensation spreading across my shoulders and back when I try to do it.

“Sarina,” I say, “would you double check that the door is locked?”

I hear her stand from her bed, then a moment later, there’s the sound of the lock moving, Sarina pulling on the door handle.

“It’s locked,” she says.

“Can you move this end table?” I ask, gesturing to it. If she can’t, I’ll get up. But I’m really hoping she can.

Sarina carefully unplugs the little alarm, the lamp, then drags the end table over the carpet toward the door, alternating between dragging and walking it.

Just before she reaches it, there’s a knock, which makes my body surge with adrenaline. I’m on my feet, out of the bed, and ignoring every ounce of pain in my body as I move toward my daughter and the threat on the other side of the door.

I still can’t smell anything.

Go, I mouth to Sarina, then point at the bathroom.Lock the door.

I have never been more grateful that my daughter is smart, and used to following my instructions. She crosses the room and silently shuts the bathroom door. A moment later, I hear the lock click.

The knock comes again, and before I can figure out how to peek outside, how to call Dorian—orsomeone—a voice drifts through.

“Veva?”

A feminine voice. Familiar.

“It’s Kira. Can I come in?”

The air exits my body in one largewhoosh, and I instantly feel weak as I reach for the handle. I open the door only a crack, peering out, finding the short, curvy woman standing on the landing, a dish wrapped in foil in her hands.

“Sorry to bother you,” she says, the moment her gaze lands on my face. She must be able to see the exhaustion there, see how tired I am. How all this is weighing on me. More than anything, I wish I could cast, lace this room with protective spells. But I’m a wrung-out rag, the magic that normally fizzes under the surface of my skin gone.

Like my body is using all its energy to repair what is broken.

As if in response to the thought, my forehead starts to pulse painfully.

“Oh,” Kira says, frowning and reaching into her pocket. “Your nose—”

I open the door and let her in, knocking one-two, one-two on the door to the bathroom. Sarina opens it slowly, fear and determination on her face until she sees me.

“Mom—you’re bleeding—”

“Watch out, love.”

I move into the small bathroom, tip my nose back, whip the toilet paper from the holder and wad it up there. Everything hurts—my nose throbbing, and consistent, looping migraine swimming just behind my eyes.

By the time I come out of the bathroom, I find Kira sitting on the end of the bed, while Sarina sits at the small table, already halfway through a serving of what looks like chicken pot pie.

My stomach turns at the thought of eating, my mouth tasting of blood, my throat sour.

I stare at the food, wishing I could have cast over it, checked to make sure it was okay. But Kira is feeding my daughter, and as of this moment, I have no choice but to trust her. My eyes wander to the packet of almonds and the Pop-Tart sitting on the other nightstand. The dinner I’d been about to serve up.

“Thank you,” I say, hearing how nasally I sound.

“Has it been bleeding a lot?” Kira asks, eyes pulling from Sarina and moving to me. “We could call the healer—”

“No, no,” I shake my head. “I just stood up too fast, I think. Thank you for the food, that was really kind.”

“I figured a home-cooked meal might do you good,” Kira smiles, and tips her head, letting some of that pretty copper hair roll over her shoulders. She’s wearing a jumper-style dress that fits her body well. It almost looks tailored.

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