She glanced over at Doc Jane. The female was standing by the bed and staring down at her mate, her arms crossed over her chest, her scrubs marked with dried brown bloodstains against the blue folds. Her Crocs were mismatched, one purple, one green.
There was blood on them, too.
“Welcome.” Jane’s eyes stayed locked on V, like she was worried he was liable to go into cardiac arrest or something. “Don’t you think he looks good?”
“Better than Tohr,” Wrath remarked as he went over.
“You’re blind,” V muttered. “So, I know you’re lying.”
“Details, details.”
Wrath put his hand out, and as V clapped his palm against his King’s, Jane’s lids went down and stayed down.
The next thing Beth knew, she was going across to the female. As those dark green eyes popped back open, she put her hand on Doc Jane’s arm.
“Hi, friend,” she whispered softly.
L.W.’s transition seemed to go on forever. In reality, it was maybe twenty-four hours of torture for him and sideline hell for everybody else. When he finally stilled, the relentless straining from pain and growth easing up, the drinking slowly coming to a stop, the unbearable worry unclamping from all kinds of tight chests and furrowed brows around the bed, the silence that followed…
Was a new kind of terror.
What if he died now?
Beth looked back and forth between V and Jane. And then she glanced at the Chosen who had finally, after having ignored all previous entreaties to stop, sat back on the floor for a rest.
As everyone just stared at her son, it was a return to the days of his infancy, when she’d watch his breathing as he slept. The only difference—and it was a big one, in so many ways—was that now, it was a mature male’s body under the covers, the size of him an obvious inheritance from his father, his shoulders three times what they had been, maybe four, his legs seemingly twice as long. And his face was totally changed. There was no more roundness to the cheeks or anywhere else, the jaw a heavy jut forward, the nose straight and bold, the forehead arching up…to a widow’s peak.
L.W.’s was right where his sire’s had been, in the front of the fall of black hair.
“He’s still breathing,” she heard herself mumble.
“He is.” Jane looked over. “His blood pressure is a little high, but nothing too concerning—”
There was a rustling, and then a slumping impact off to the side.
Everyone pivoted to where Salima had been sitting. The Chosen was no longer upright. She’d collapsed in a sprawl, and God, the blood. Why hadn’t anybody noticed the blood? Her white robing was stained red as if it had been dyed, and her skin was so pale, it was nearly gray.
“Salima!” Beth rushed around to the Chosen. “Salima, are you—”
The female’s eyes fluttered open as Beth struggled to gather her up. Her arms were so lax there was no getting a hold on them, and the dead weight was almost impossible to move.
“V!” she hissed.
But the Brother was already right on it, all but jumping over the bed and landing on both knees by the Chosen. “Shit, he took too much—”
“Salima?” Beth shook the female a little, for all the good that would do. “Salima—”
A mumbling response percolated out of lips that—oh, shit—were turning blue. “My Lord…is he still well…?”
“Hey, Salima.” V spoke up in a sharp tone. “I want you to drink—right now.”
Those drooping lids flared open once again, and the pupils were so dilated, the irises had been all but eaten up. “It is my honor…to have served the future King—”
“And you did well,” the Brother cut in. “But we’re thinking of you now. Take my vein. NOW.”
Instead, the Chosen looked up at Beth. “Is your son alive?”
“Yes,” she choked out as she smoothed the flyaways around the beautiful face that was losing all its color. “Let’s have you drink, okay? I want you to drink—”
