Ex-Alpha's Regret: Siren's Comeback novel Chapter 45

POV: Seraphina

Time dissolved into a blur of pain, cold efficiency, and the sharp, antiseptic smell of medical supplies. I was vaguely aware of hands cleaning me, of the rustle of fresh sheets being pulled tight, of my ruined nightgown being cut away. Dr. Alistair worked over me, his face a grim, professional mask. He didn't speak to me, only issued clipped orders to the pale-faced servants who scurried in and out. He was her accomplice, the executioner, and now he was the one cleaning up the evidence.

As he administered a pain-dulling sedative, his eyes met mine for a fraction of a second. In their depths, I saw a flicker of something—pity, guilt, maybe even fear—before it was quickly extinguished and replaced by the cool mask of a physician. He knew what he had done. He was a murderer.

"The bleeding has stopped," he announced to a servant, his voice loud and clear for anyone who might be listening outside the door. "The Luna's old internal injuries from the rogue attack have flared up again. A severe hemorrhage. She has lost a lot of blood, but she will be stable. She requires absolute rest and quiet."

The lie was sealed. The official story was written. My child's murder was officially recorded as a flare-up of an old injury. A footnote in my medical history. An unfortunate, but explainable, event.

Damian, in an act of what he probably considered administrative prudence, sealed the wing of the manor. No one was allowed in or out. He sent a notice to the council that the Luna had suffered a severe health crisis and required a long period of convalescence. He never came to see me. He never sent a message. He never asked the doctor a single question about the nature of my ‘injuries.' He simply accepted the story that protected him from scandal, swept the mess under the rug, and moved on. The matter was handled.

The moonlight slanted through the window, catching the edge of a silver letter opener left on my bedside table. My fingers, slow and deliberate, reached out and wrapped around the cool, heavy handle.

My grip tightened, my knuckles turning white.