Chapter 81

ELENA

I paced outside the hospital, one hand pressed to my forehead as the other gripped my phone so tightly I thought it might crack.

The air outside was thick with humidity, the kind that clung to your skin and refused to let go. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed.

The night should have been still—calm, peaceful. But the chaos inside me mirrored the hospital behind me: wild, panicked, loud. I could still see the flashes of red and blue on the asphalt from where we’d pulled up. Still feel Aiden’s blood drying on my arms like some kind of brand.

The phone rang once.

“Come on,” I whispered.

Logan answered on the first ring.

“Elena? Goddess, are you okay? What happened?” His voice came fast, tight with panic.

I closed my eyes, trying to draw a breath, but my lungs stuttered. The Caribbean night air was warm, almost soothing, and the sea breeze off the water kissed the side of my face.

But it didn’t calm me. It didn’t cool the fire crawling through my veins. The heat wasn’t from the air—it was from fear. From guilt. From the image of Aiden’s pale face going still in the sand.

“We’re at the hospital,” I said. “There was an attack. A rogue tried to take Aiden. He was hurt. Badly.”

Silence.

Then a long, rattled breath. “Is he alive?”

“Yes,” I managed. “But he’s not out of the woods yet. They had to rush him into emergency care. There was… a lot of blood.”

I heard movement on the other end of the line—papers shuffling, the sharp jingle of keys, the sound of a zipper. Logan was already moving.

“I’m coming,” he said. “I’m getting the next flight out.”

I hesitated.

I didn’t want to complicate things. I didn’t want a fight. But the truth had to come out now. “You don’t need to do that… Derek’s here.”

Another beat of silence.

This one colder.

When he finally spoke, his voice had sharpened. “Derek? What the hell is he doing there?”

“He came to the island. For me.” I swallowed hard. “But when Aiden was taken… he—he saved us. He got us out. He brought us here. He… he gave blood. They didn’t have enough. He matched.”

A low, bitter sound cut through the phone. “Of course he did.”

The words scraped something raw inside me. “Logan. He saved my son.”

Silence stretched again—tight and hot down the wire. Then, finally, he exhaled.

“Fine,” he said, but it was reluctant. “I’ll inform Mason and your parents. Let them know what’s going on. But I’m still coming down. You shouldn’t be dealing with this alone.”

“Thank you,” I whispered, even though I wasn’t sure whether I meant it. Not entirely. Not with everything I still hadn’t told him.

I ended the call and stared down at the phone in my hand. My reflection wavered in the dark glass, eyes hollow, mouth pressed in a line I barely recognized. My stomach turned.

I stood in the relative silence, my, heart racing. I hadn’t told him that Derek knew. That the words had been said aloud. That the truth was no longer a secret.

And I wasn’t sure how he’d react when that came out.

I sucked in a shaky breath and stepped back inside.

The fluorescent lights stung my eyes. The air inside the hospital felt cool compared to the warm breeze outside. But it also felt thick, like it had absorbed too many unspoken prayers and not enough answered ones.

Derek was standing just inside the waiting room, scanning the corridor like a man desperate for direction, like if he didn’t find me soon he’d come undone.

His eyes locked on me instantly.

He moved toward me, fast—purposeful.

I steeled myself. Here it comes, I thought. The confrontation. The righteous fury. The demand to know why I’d kept his son from him.

I was ready for it. I wasn’t proud of the lie, but I’d made peace with the reasons.

But then—his steps faltered.

His skin went pale, and I saw the moment his balance shifted. His hand reached for the wall like it might hold him up.

"Derek?"

I rushed forward and caught him under the arm just as his knees buckled.

"Whoa—hey—sit down. Come on."

I guided him to a plastic chair in the corner, heart pounding. He was dead weight for a second, heavy and unsteady, before he blinked hard and tried to sit up straighter.

A nurse was already heading toward us—the same one who had managed his donation earlier. She moved with calm efficiency but I could see the concern on her face.

"Is he okay?" I asked, breathless.

The nurse crouched beside him and took his wrist gently. Her fingers pressed into the inside of his wrist like she already knew what the answer was.

"He insisted on two pints during the second donation. Wouldn’t take no for an answer. It’s against protocol, but—"

"Let me guess," I said, my voice soft despite the frustration bubbling under the surface. "He was very Alpha about it."

The nurse chuckled. "That’s one way to put it. I figured I’d let him get away with it—he saved that little boy’s life today. Twice."

She handed me an electrolyte drink and a sandwich wrapped in paper. "He needs fluids and iron. Make sure he finishes both. No excuses."

Derek held up a weak hand to protest. “Please,” he said. “I’ve already had something like 72 of those things. I’m about to burst.”

But I was already peeling the wrapper back.

"Drink," I said, depositing the bottle in one of his hands and the sandwich in the other. My tone left no room for argument. "Eat."

He opened the sandwich slowly, as if the act of lifting his arms required more effort than it should’ve. I sat beside him, my thigh brushing against his as I kept a watchful eye on the color slowly returning to his cheeks.

Watching him—pale, exhausted, slumped in that uncomfortable plastic chair—it hit me just how much he’d given.

Not just blood. Not just time.

He’d given his strength. His protection. His presence.

He’d given his heart, without hesitation, in the most terrifying of moments.

“Thank you,” I said softly.

He turned to look at me.

"You probably just saved Aiden’s life. I can’t thank you enough. I—"

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t flash that crooked grin. Didn’t shrug it off or crack a joke like I’d half expected him to.

He just stared at me, jaw tight, expression unreadable.

His eyes were too full. His posture too still.

The silence stretched between us—full of everything we’d never said, everything we’d buried, everything that had risen to the surface tonight whether we were ready for it or not.

“Elena,” he finally said, his voice quiet but firm, like he was pointing out something I should’ve seen all along. “I would have done it even if he weren’t my son.”

I blinked, thrown.

“Why?” I asked, barely above a whisper.

His answer came without hesitation. Quiet. Steady. Devastating.

“Because,” he said. “He’s yours.”