Four Days

♥ RAYMOND'S POV ♥

"I just want to see her, Raymond, please—" Jasmine's voice cracks down the line, thick with days of crying I can hear even through the phone speaker.

"I know. I know you do." I press my palm against my eyes, the hallway chair beneath me doing nothing for the ache that's settled into my spine after four days of hospital corridors. "Not yet, Jas. She needs to wake up first."

"What if she doesn't? What if this is my fault, what if I should've just—"

"This isn't your fault." I say it sharp enough to cut through the spiral before it swallows her whole. "None of this is your fault. The second she's stable, you're the first person I call. I promise."

Forrest appears at the end of the hall before she can argue further, two fingers pressed briefly to his own eyes before pointing toward her room.

"Jas, I have to go. Call you back."

I hang up before she can object, already moving.

"She's awake," Forrest says, falling into step. "Barely. Don't expect much."

She isn't awake for long. I catch maybe ten seconds of her eyes open — glassy, unfocused, sliding shut again before she can find me in the doorway — before sleep pulls her back under. It's enough. It's the first sign in four days that she's still fighting.

I don't get long to sit with that relief.

"Raymond." Karl's voice, tight, from behind me. My best friend doesn't look happy. "You need to see the lobby."

I know before I even get there. I know from the way the air in the hallway changes, from the sudden hush of nurses stepping aside, from the click of expensive heels on hospital tile that don't belong in a place that smells like antiseptic and fear.

Queen Valkyrie sweeps through the ICU doors like she owns them, two assistants flanking her, and behind them — cameras. A small press crew, badges from one of the pack's affiliated news outlets, already angling for footage.

"Where is she?" the Queen asks, voice pitched exactly loud enough to carry, exactly soft enough to sound concerned. "I've come to see that the poor girl is looked after."

I know a performance when I see one. This isn't concern. This is damage control, dressed up in a cashmere coat.

"She's resting," I say, stepping into her path before she can get further. "She's on life support. This isn't the time."

"And you are?" Her eyes flick over me, dismissive, before landing back on the cameras like they're the only audience that matters. "I'm her family's liaison. I have every right to see to her care."

"You're not her family."

"I'm the closest thing to it she has left, given how her own have behaved." She says it smoothly, already half-turning toward the cameras. "The pack should know that despite the unfortunate rumors circulating, my son and Azalea parted on entirely amicable terms. I intend to see her discharged into proper care immediately, so she can recover somewhere more dignified than a hospital ward."

*Amicable.* The word makes my jaw ache from clenching.

I find Forrest before she can take another step. "Don't let them take her," I say, low and urgent. "Whatever it takes."

Forrest doesn't hesitate. "Wasn't planning to."

He steps into the space between the Queen and the ICU doors like he's done it a hundred times before — because he has, just never with an audience this large.

"I'm sorry, Your Majesty, but that patient cannot be discharged."

The Queen's smile doesn't waver, but something behind her eyes goes flat. "Excuse me?"

"She's currently on life support. Discharging a patient in her condition would be medically negligent, and frankly, illegal." Forrest's voice stays level, professional, utterly unmoved by the cameras now angling toward him instead. "Additionally, she has had no family present in the four days she's been here. Not one visit, not one phone call. I can't release a patient with no one accountable for her care."

"I am accountable," the Queen says, sharper now. "I'm arranging for her transfer to a private facility, which is far more than her own blood has bothered to do."

"With respect, ma'am, you have no legal standing to arrange anything for this patient. You're not her guardian, her mate—" Forrest pauses deliberately. "Not anymore, according to the video every news outlet in this city has already run."

A ripple goes through the small press cluster. One reporter's pen stops moving entirely.

The Queen's composure cracks, just barely — a tightening around her mouth. "I don't appreciate your tone, Doctor."

"I don't require your appreciation. I require you to leave my patient's care to her medical team." Forrest tilts his head, and something in his voice sharpens into something almost pleasant, which is somehow worse. "Unless you'd like me to have the front desk pull the recorded call between yourself and Miss Azalea's father from three nights ago. The one requesting she be quietly moved before she regains consciousness."

The color drains out of the Queen's face so fast I almost feel sorry for her.

"I don't know what you're referring to," she says, too quickly.

"No? I could be wrong. Hospital lines record everything, of course — purely for liability. Easy enough to check." Forrest gestures vaguely toward the nurses' station, entirely too casual. "Shall I?"

"That won't be necessary." The Queen's smile returns, thinner now, stretched tight over something furious underneath. "I can see she's in capable hands. I'll leave my condolences with the family instead."

She turns on her heel, assistants scrambling after her, and snaps something at the press crew about there being nothing left to film here. The cameras lower. The lobby exhales.

Forrest watches her go, then turns to me with the ghost of a grim smile. "You owe me."

"I owe you a lot of things." I drag a hand down my face. "That call — was that real?"

"Unfortunately." He grits through his teeth, already walking back toward the ICU. 

A commotion breaks out behind us — a woman shoving past the security desk, tears streaking down her face despite what looks like considerable effort to hold them back.

"Please, I just need to see her—"

"Ma'am, I'm sorry, but visitation is restricted to family only—"

"I AM her family." The woman's voice cracks, raw and furious. "Fuck family. I want to see my Azzy!" Her voice breaks entirely.  "Please! I just got off a plane —”

I'm moving before I've fully decided to.

"Hey." I keep my voice low, steady, the way I'd approach a cornered animal. "Hey, it's alright. Breathe."

She turns on me like she might take a swing, eyes rimmed red, mascara long since given up the fight. "Who are you?"

"Someone who's also been trying to get answers about her for four days." I hold up both hands. "You're her best friend?"

"I'm her only friend.” She swipes furiously at her face. "Martha. My name's Martha. We've been best friends since we were nine, I have — here—" She's already fumbling with her phone, hands shaking too hard to unlock it smoothly, before she thrusts it toward me.

Photo after photo — the two of them younger, arms slung around each other at what looks like a graduation, birthday candles lit between them, a blurry selfie with party hats. Years of it, scrolling back further the harder she swipes.

"Nobody would tell me anything," Martha says, voice cracking again. "I found out through a fucking video! I had to watch my best friend get humiliated in front of half the pack before anyone thought to call me."

"I know." I hand the phone back gently. "I know exactly how that feels."

Something in her expression shifts, some of the fury draining into something more exhausted. "Is she okay? Please. Just tell me she's okay."

"She's stable. She woke up briefly a few minutes ago." I glance toward the ICU doors. "Come with me. I'll get you in."

I don't wait for the nurses to argue. Whatever authority my name carries in this hospital, I intend to spend every bit of it making sure the one person who actually showed up for her gets through that door.