Chapter 3

My legs tremble slightly as I make my way through the crowded children's ward, memories of the beaten by Myron and the loss of another baby still fresh in my head.

Admin had called an hour earlier while I was getting cleaned up from the loss of the baby to tell me one of the doctor's called in sick.

Now, a bit lightheaded but determined to cover for my colleague in the pediatric ward, I'm standing over a cute two year old boy with wavy brown hair and oily dark eyes.

He's sitting on the chair opposite my desk, hands folded across his chest, in a pose that uncannily resembles my husband Myron's own.

“Hey, cutey,” I call breezily as I come around my desk, “What can I do for you? What's wrong?”

The boy looks up at me and my heart stops for a beat, the flushing lightness in my head stops. The boy is a spitting image of Myron, and I would have chucked that to coincidence if he hadn't smiled. His melting smile ends in a crease on both sides of his cheeks, just like Myron's own. He bends and puffs little coughs into cupped hands, then he rubs his chest.

“I have a cough,” the boy says, “It aches so bad.”

“Awn, let me take a listen at the rhythm here in your chest.”

I look out the open door as I snatch my stethoscope off the desk to see if the boy's mother is sitting out there waiting in line with the other patients and their parents.

Placing the stainless steel head of stethoscope on his pale, smooth chest I ask him, “You didn't come to the hospital alone now, little man, did you?”

“My mommy went to the ladies.”

“Alright, now let's see what's going on in that cute chest of yours.”

The boy giggles, the cold steel of the stethoscope likely tickling him, something that happens sometimes with kids. A woman in pink flowered dress walks into the room as I finish examining the little boy and something striking about her causes me to grimace.

I instantly perceive from her a strong Lycan aura, very much like those in the Southern Province. There's cool shimmer in the gray of her eyes, like a smouldering fire.

You look familiar—have we met before, ma'am?

And your son, he—

She is about my height with long wavy sandy hair like the boys, and his sharp jutting chin. Her alert gray eyes shoot from the boy to my face and there it stays, watchful, tense and narrowing.

Breaking the silence that follows, I say quickly, “Hello, I'm Emerald. I take it this is your son.”

“Y-yes.” The woman takes slow, cautious steps towards the boy, her watchful eyes holding mine as she places slim fingers on the boys shoulders. “He has a bad cough, and I, um—”

“Nothing to worry about. He's breathing is regular,” I smile, stepping back, “I'll write out a prescription for cough syrup. He'll be fine in a few days.”

Leaning over the desk, I pull my prescription book and with a pen in hand, begin to scribble on the white paper. I'm acutely aware of the woman's eyes on my forehead, her protective nails digging slightly into the boys shoulders like a mother eagle.

As I write, I search the woman's face in the memory files containing faces of all the women I know.

“Name, please?” I ask, glancing at her face, and for a moment I'm sure she is not about to respond to my question.

“Er…um…Cilian,” she whispers.

I look up at her, expecting her to give me a last name and then it hit me—Myron! I've seen her with Myron, my husband. The memories flood in like sunlight pouring through a window, illuminating a dark corner. She was at Myron's inauguration party years back, among the servers, and after the party, I spotted them together, talking.

Myron had dismissed the subject of the strange woman when I brought it up, telling me ‘she’s just one of the helps.’

“Last name?” I ask, probing.

She clears her throat and gives a terse reply: “Just Cilian, please.”

I finish writing but hold on to the prescription note. Coming around the desk, heart pounding, head hot with mad anger at what my mind keeps screaming as I glance at the little boy: this is Myron's child!

It has to be, and it doesn't matter that I've never seen this woman pregnant, have never heard whispers of Myron's infidelity through the grapevine of our pack, nor outside of it.

I pull the drawer in my desk, pretending to look for something in there by rummaging around papers, old pediatric textbook, I fashioned a plan.

“One more thing,” I say in a voice that struggles to stay calm. “Any allergies I need to know of?”

The woman gives me a confused but wary gaze, her hands easing from her son's shoulders. The boy let's out a couple of coughs into his cupped hands as the mother comes around his side.

“Is there a problem, doctor?” the woman asks, the shimmer in her gray eyes, awakening.

“None, whatsoever. But I need to know if he has allergies. It's standard procedure before giving prescriptions.”

“Okay, nothing major. Just peanut butter, that's all,” she replies, with a slightly intimidating note.

“Okay, if that's the case, I'll have to do a few more checks—”

Armed with my stethoscope again, under the watchful, keen eyes of the mother, I take the boys left hand and begin a mock examination.

The boy's giggles again as the metal tickles him and I smile too. The boy's good nature, my calm attention as I do my thing, seem to ease the woman's anxiety.

I look up at the woman, and without taking my eyes off her face, and my right hand doing the work, I say, “You have a cute, brave son, ma'am.”

With my left hand, I pluck a strand of hair from the boy's head using a feather touch charm, a skill I've horned for years.

“Thank you,” she replies. Then with a halting smile adds, “We would like to leave now, doctor. If you don't mind.”

“Oh, I'll just update this prescription.”

I cross out what I'd written earlier and updated it with a different brand and handed the slip to her waiting hand.

Once I'm alone, sweat breaks out on my back, and within seconds, my dresses is wet and sticking to my back as I pace the room.