Chapter 8—WHERE DID SHE GO?

ALEXANDER'S POV

“Is my son going to be alright, Doctor?”

The moment I stepped out of the operating theatre, the boy's father hurried toward me, his face drawn with exhaustion and worry. There was something almost desperate in the way he looked at me, as though he had been holding his breath for the entire length of the surgery and was afraid that one wrong expression on my face would confirm his worst fear.

I removed my surgical cap and pulled off my gloves before giving him my full attention.

“He is stable for now,” I told him, keeping my voice calm and professional. “The surgery went well, and we were able to control the bleeding and repair the damage we found, but I don't want to give you the impression that everything is completely out of danger yet. He suffered a serious injury, so we need to watch him very closely over the next twenty-four hours. If anything changes, we'll let you know immediately.”

His shoulders dropped slightly, as though the words had finally given him permission to breathe.

“Can I see him?” he asked, his voice quieter now. “I know he's still unconscious, but I just want to see my son. I need to know he's really there.”

“You'll be able to see him once we've transferred him and the nurses have finished settling him in the ICU,” I assured him. “You may not be able to stay with him continuously, but we'll let you spend some time beside him.”

“Thank you, Doctor.” He swallowed hard and rubbed a trembling hand over his face. “I don't even know what I would have done if something had happened to him. Thank you for saving my son.”

I gave him a reassuring nod, but my mind was already somewhere else.

Brea.

Even after spending hours concentrating entirely on the boy's condition, I couldn't get the image of her out of my head. The moment that man had carried his son into the emergency room, something inside Brea had changed so dramatically that even someone who barely knew her would have noticed it. She had been standing there like a doctor one second, ready to do what she had been trained to do, and then she had looked at the child's father and simply... stopped.

It had not been ordinary hesitation.

It had been fear or pain.

Perhaps both.

And the fact that I couldn't understand what had caused it bothered me more than I wanted to admit.

My gaze drifted toward the corridor.

The way I had spoken to her when she refused to move flashed through my mind and guilt immediately tightened something in my chest. I had been angry because there was a child bleeding in front of us and every second mattered, but now that the urgency had passed, I could acknowledge that I might have handled the situation differently.

I should have asked what was wrong instead of shouting at her.

With that thought weighing on me, I walked toward her office, intending to find her and apologize before the day ended.

I knocked on the door before pushing it open.

“Brea?”

The room was empty.

I stepped farther inside and looked around, almost expecting to find her sitting behind her desk with her head buried in her hands. But the chair was vacant, her desk looked untouched, and there was no sign of her handbag anywhere.

A strange uneasiness settled over me.

I walked back into the corridor and almost immediately saw Amelia approaching from the direction of the operating theatre.

“Amelia, have you seen Brea?”

She slowed down, staring at me as though I had just asked her a question that made absolutely no sense.

“Brea?” she repeated. “Why are you asking me that?”

“I went to her office, but she isn't there,” I explained, watching her confusion deepen.

Amelia frowned before looking from me toward Brea's office and then back at me.

“Respectfully, Doctor Knox, I don't understand why you're asking me. I just came out of the same theatre with you. Have you forgotten?”

Her words made me pause.

Of course.

She had been beside me throughout the surgery. Whatever Brea had done, she had done it while we were both occupied with the boy.

“I know,” I said, rubbing the back of my neck. “I was hoping you might have seen her before we went into the theatre.”

“I did see her earlier,” Amelia replied. “But after everything happened in the emergency room, I assumed she was still somewhere in the hospital. Did she tell you she was leaving?”

“No.” I shook my head. “She didn't tell me anything.”

Amelia studied my face for a few seconds.

“Did something happen between the two of you?”

I looked at her, but before I could answer, my attention was pulled toward the nurses' station.

Something had happened.

I was certain of it.

The question was whether Brea had left because of me, because of that man, or because something about seeing him had brought back memories she had spent years trying to bury.

“I'll find her,” I said quietly.

Amelia's expression changed slightly, but she didn't question me again.

I walked toward the nurses' station and asked, “Has anyone seen Dr. Anderson since the surgery began?”

One of the nurses immediately looked up from her computer.

“Yes, Doctor. She left.”

I frowned. “She left the hospital?”

“Yes. I saw her walking out with her handbag shortly after you went into the theatre.”

For a moment, I simply stared at her.

She had left without telling anyone.

Without waiting for the surgery to finish.

Without saying a word to me.

“Did she tell you where she was going?” I asked.

“No, Doctor. She only said goodbye and left.”

I thanked the nurse and walked away, but my thoughts were already racing.

When I reached my office, I sat down and pulled out my phone. I wanted to call Brea immediately, only to realize something that irritated me more than it should have.

I didn't have her number.

How had I managed to work beside this woman, become her friend, discover that she was my mate, and still not have her phone number?

I exhaled through my nose and opened my email instead.

There was a message from Brea.

I opened it and read it carefully.

She had written in the same professional tone she always used at work, informing me that she needed to take a few days from her annual leave because of a personal matter. She hadn't explained what the matter was, only that she would return to work soon and hoped I would understand.

I read the message again.

Then I frowned.

A few days?

She had just disappeared from the hospital after seeing a man who had visibly shaken her, and now she expected me to sit quietly in my office while she went wherever she had gone without telling anyone what was happening?

I knew I was being unreasonable, but concern had already begun twisting itself into frustration.

I typed my reply.

“Your leave request is hereby rejected. Return to work first thing tomorrow morning.”

I sent it before I could reconsider.

Then I waited.

A minute passed.

Then another.

Nothing.

I checked my inbox again, expecting her to argue with me or at least acknowledge the message.

There was no response.

I leaned back in my chair and stared at the ceiling, trying to convince myself that I was only worried because she was my colleague and because I had shouted at her earlier.

My wolf knew better.

You were too harsh on her.

I closed my eyes and sighed.

“I know I was.”

Then why did you speak to her that way?

“Because there was a child dying in front of us, and she was standing there as though she couldn't hear anyone. I needed someone to take control of the situation.”

You could have helped her instead of shouting at her.

I opened my eyes and stared at the empty space across my office.

“I should have,” I admitted, my voice quieter. “I should have realized that something was seriously wrong with her.”

My wolf remained silent for several seconds before asking the question that made my chest tighten.

Does that matter now? What if she doesn't return?

“She has to.”

But what if she doesn't?

I looked down at my phone, at the unanswered email sitting in my sent folder, and felt something inside me harden with determination.

“I'll find her,” I said. “Wherever she goes in this world, I'll find her.”

But who was that man, and what happened to her?

That was the question I couldn't answer.

I remembered the man's face, the way he had carried his unconscious son into the hospital, and then the way Brea had looked at him. There had been recognition between them, but it hadn't been the warm recognition of old friends or acquaintances meeting after years apart.

It had been something heavier.

Something painful.

“We won't know until we find out,” I finally said.

I pushed my chair back and stood, reaching for my phone and keys.

The more I thought about it, the more uncomfortable I became with simply sitting there and waiting for Brea to decide when she was ready to return.

Perhaps I had no right to interfere.

Perhaps I was crossing a boundary she hadn't invited me to cross.

But I couldn't shake the feeling that she wasn't merely taking a few days off.

Something had happened to her.

Something connected to that man.

And whatever it was, it had been powerful enough to make Brea Anderson run.

I slipped my phone into my pocket and headed for the door.

“Maybe I should go apologize,” I murmured to myself.

I was already halfway down the hospital corridor when the sound came from behind me.