Awake

♥ AZALEA'S POV ♥

The first thing I register is pain — a dull, full-body ache like I've been run through a wringer — and the second thing is a weight against my hand, warm and familiar even through the haze.

I shift, just slightly, and a whimper escapes before I can stop it.

Martha's head snaps up from where it had been resting against the mattress, eyes bleary, hair a wild nest around her face. For one disoriented second she just stares at me like she's not sure I'm real.

Then she's crying.

"Azzy." My name comes out broken, barely a whisper, and she's leaning over the bed rail to wrap her arms around me as gently as she can manage, like I might shatter if she holds too tight. "Oh my god. Azzy."

I don't mean to cry. I've spent eleven years learning how not to. But something about her arms around me, about being held by someone who isn't performing concern for an audience, cracks something loose in my chest that I've kept sealed for far too long.

"You were right," I whisper into her shoulder, voice cracking on every word. "You told me. You told me years ago and I didn't listen — he never loved me, Martha. He never did."

"I know, baby. I know." She strokes my hair back from my face, tears dripping onto my cheek to mix with my own. "I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

We stay like that longer than either of us can probably account for — two women crying into each other, years of unspoken warnings and stubborn hope finally breaking the surface at once.

When the worst of it passes, Martha pulls back just enough to look at me properly, swiping furiously at her own face like she's annoyed at herself for crying at all.

"I should've been here sooner," she says. "God, Azzy, I'm so sorry it took me this long."

"You're here now."

"I had zero service in Germany," her jaw tightens. "While I was there for that stupid conference. I saw the video the next morning and I swear I ran straight to the airport, but there was a storm — grounded every flight out for two days. Two fucking days, Azalea. I was losing my mind." She shakes her head, voice thick. "By the time I got here you'd already been out for four days straight. I thought—" She stops herself, unable to finish the sentence.

"I'm okay," I say, though we both know that's only half true.

"You are not okay. But you're alive, and that's the only thing I care about right now." She squeezes my hand. "Can I get you anything? Water? Should I call the nurse—"

"My phone." My voice comes out rough, throat still raw. "Can you find my phone?"

She's already reaching for the small bag of belongings on the side table when the door opens.

I know before I even look up. I know from the way the scent of the air in the room changes, the way Martha's spine goes rigid beside me.

Elias steps inside first, cousin Tobias a half-step behind him, and the disgust on Elias's face arrives before he's even fully through the doorway.

"You're awake," he says, like it's an inconvenience. "Good. Now maybe you can explain why half the pack is talking about nothing else."

"Excuse me?" Martha rises off the edge of the bed like a spring released.

"She caused an entire scene." Elias's mouth curls. "My mother had to come to the hospital herself to do damage control. Do you understand what that does to my image? To hers?"

"Elias." Tobias's voice, low, warning. "That's not why we're here."

Elias exhales through his nose like he's the one being wronged in this room. "Fine." He looks at me again, something calculating replacing the disgust. "Since you're awake, we need to go to the priestess. For the formal removal."

"The what?" Martha's voice climbs an octave.

"The bond," Elias says, like it's obvious. "It needs to be formally severed. Can't leave it half-done."

"Are you out of your fucking mind?" Martha steps between us, hands on her hips, practically vibrating with fury. "She just survived a rejection that put her in a coma for four days and you want to drag her to a priestess for round two? Are you trying to kill her?"

Elias shrugs, entirely unbothered. "She survived the first wave fine. I'm sure she can survive the second."

"Elias." Tobias's voice sharpens now, real disapproval bleeding through. "That's enough. Listen to yourself."

"I'll come," I say, before this can escalate further, my voice quiet but steady enough to cut through the room. "Once I've been discharged. Not before."

Elias's jaw works like he wants to argue, but something in my tone — flat, unimpressed, nothing like the version of me who used to beg — seems to throw him off balance.

"Fine," he mutters. "Whenever you're finally done milking the hospital bed."

He turns and walks out without another word.

Tobias lingers half a second, guilt written plainly across his face. "Azalea, I'm sorry about—"

"Tobias." Elias's voice, sharp, from the hallway. "Let's go."

Tobias closes his mouth, gives me one last apologetic look, and follows.

The silence after they leave rings louder than either of their voices did.

Martha sits back down slowly, breathing hard through her nose like she's trying not to chase after them and start something she can't finish.

"I hate him," she says finally. "I have hated him since high school and I am never going to stop hating him."

I don't have the strength to argue with her. I'm not sure I even want to.

The door opens again before either of us can say more.

Martha's whole face changes at the sight of who walks in — softening instantly, some of the fury draining into something warmer.

"Azzy," she says, turning to me, gesturing at the man in the doorway. "This is him. This is your savior.”