Page 26

The first few days at the facility passed in a haze of therapy sessions, group discussions, and restless nights.

The staff was kind but firm, encouraging me to talk about what had led me here.

I avoided mentioning Dominic or the werewolf bond—those were secrets too strange to share.

Instead, I focused on my parents' divorce, my mother's drinking, the suffocating loneliness.

On the third day, during visiting hours, my father arrived alone. He looked exhausted, his usual cheerful demeanor dimmed. "Your mother... she's not ready to see you yet," he admitted, rubbing his temples. "But she's getting help too. We both are."

I nodded, too tired to feel angry. "What about Dominic?" I asked, my voice barely audible.

My father sighed. "That boy's been camped outside the hospital since you left.

Security had to drag him out twice." He shook his head, but there was a hint of respect in his eyes. "He cares about you, Elaine. A lot."

My chest ached at the thought of Dominic waiting, worrying. I missed him—his warmth, his protectiveness, even his growls. But I also knew I needed this time to heal, to figure out who I was without the weight of everyone else's expectations.

Later that night, as I lay in bed, the nurse handed me a small envelope. "This came for you," she said softly.

Inside was a single sheet of paper, covered in Dominic's messy handwriting:

Elaine,

I'm sorry. For everything. I should've been there for you sooner. I should've made you believe me.

I'll wait as long as it takes. You're my mate, and that means forever.

—Dominic

I pressed the letter to my chest, tears welling up again. For the first time in a long time, I didn't feel alone. And that was enough to keep me going.

The next morning, I woke to the sound of muffled sobbing from the bed next to mine. My roommate, a girl named Lacey with hollow cheeks and wild, unbrushed hair, was curled into a ball, rocking back and forth. She clutched a stuffed rabbit to her chest, whispering to it like a child.

"Hey," I said softly, sitting up. "Are you okay?"

Lacey's head snapped toward me, her bloodshot eyes wide. "They're in the walls," she hissed. "They whisper at night. You'll hear them too."

A chill ran down my spine. Before I could respond, the door swung open, and a nurse strode in with a tray of morning meds. "Lacey, time for your medication," she said brightly, as if this were a normal hospital and not a place where people screamed in their sleep.

Lacey recoiled. "No! They're poison! They want to silence me!" She scrambled backward, knocking over her water cup. The nurse sighed, motioning for an orderly.

I swallowed my own pill without protest, but my hands shook. This is where I belong now, I thought bitterly. With the broken ones.

Group therapy was worse.

We sat in a circle—twelve of us, all girls—while a therapist named Dr. Chen guided the discussion. Most of the patients stared at the floor, but one girl, Rachel, couldn't stop talking.

"My boyfriend is a demon," Rachel announced, picking at her chipped nail polish. "He steals my thoughts when I sleep. That's why I cut my hair off—to confuse him." She grinned, running a hand through her uneven buzzcut.

A few girls giggled nervously. I clenched my fists in my lap. This is insane. I don't belong here.

Then Rachel's gaze landed on me. "You're new," she said, tilting her head. "Who hurt you?"

The room went silent.

My throat tightened. "No one. I—I hurt myself."

Rachel's grin widened. "Liar. I can see it in your eyes. You're running from something." She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Or someone."

A cold sweat broke out on my skin. How does she know?

Dr. Chen cleared her throat. "Rachel, let's stay on topic."

But Rachel kept staring at me, unblinking. "You'll tell us the truth eventually. We always do."

That night, the screams started again.

Somewhere down the hall, a girl wailed like a wounded animal. Lacey whimpered into her pillow, muttering about the voices. I pulled my blanket over my head, trying to block it out.

Then—a scratch at the door.

I froze.

Slowly, the door creaked open. A shadow slipped inside.

"Elaine," a voice whispered.

My heart stopped. Dominic?

But when I sat up, it wasn't him. It was Rachel.

She stood at the foot of my bed, her eyes glinting in the dim light. "You're dreaming about him, aren't you?" she murmured. "The one with the gold eyes."

My blood turned to ice. "H-How do you—"

Rachel pressed a finger to her lips. "Shhh. The walls listen." Then, with a eerie smile, she turned and vanished into the hallway.

I didn't sleep the rest of the night.

The next morning, I demanded to see the head psychiatrist.

"I don't belong here," I said, my voice trembling. "I'm not like them. I just—I made a mistake."

Dr. Carter steepled his fingers. "Elaine, suicidal ideation isn't a mistake. It's a symptom. And Rachel? She's schizophrenic. She doesn't know what she's saying."

"But she knew about—" I bit my tongue. About Dominic's eyes. About the bond.

Dr. Carter sighed. "Coincidence. Or projection. But not supernatural."

I wanted to scream. You don't understand! None of you do! But then I remembered Dominic's letter. I'll wait as long as it takes. So I swallowed my rage and nodded.

Because the truth was, maybe I did belong here. At least until I figured out what was real—and what was just another kind of madness.