Page 17 of Donovan
My heart ached at the sound.
“This isn’t up for debate,” I murmured, my body trembling as the infection took root. Spreading. Twisting.
The transformation wasn’t instant; it took time, at least forty-eight hours.
“You’re not dying.”
"It's too late," I whispered. "You know it is."
"Bullshit!" His voice cracked. "I'm coming to get you. Just hold on."
I opened my mouth, but my fingers slipped, the phone tumbling from my grasp. I didn’t hear what Donovan said next.
The cold sank into my bones and the darkness swallowed me whole.
CHAPTER FOUR
DONOVAN
Declan’s callstill rang in my ears. His ragged breathing. The raw, quiet panic in his voice. Declan’s call came just minutes after I called Tom.
Too soon to be a coincidence. Maybe fate was on my side for once.
Now, I was out the door, moving fast, my heart hammering as I made my way to the garage.
The weight of my backpack pressed against my shoulders, filled with weapons, supplies. Anything I might need.
Because I had no idea what I was walking into. Only that I had to get to Declan. I was almost there when I heard footsteps behind me.
“Are you following me?” I asked without looking back.
A familiar voice answered. “Just worried about you.”
Kit.
His voice stopped me cold. I turned, finding him standing a few feet away, arms crossed, brow furrowed.
His gaze flicked to the bulky backpack slung over my shoulder, sharp and suspicious.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
I forced my expression into something neutral. “Taking a break.” My voice was even, casual. “Cleared it with the Elders.”
Kit snorted. “You and I both know applying for time off isn’t that simple.”
I shrugged, shifting the strap of my backpack. “Guess I got lucky,” I told him.
Kit didn’t look convinced.
He didn’t press either, but his stare drilled into me, his usual easygoing expression replaced by something wary, uncertain.
I held his gaze, trying to project confidence, but inside, my heart was hammering. I didn’t have time for this.
Kit exhaled softly, shaking his head. “Why do I have a feeling this is the last conversation we’ll ever have?”
It was meant to be a joke. It wasn’t.
Something in his voice, low, almost resigned, made my stomach twist. For the first time, my grip on my bag tightened.
