Surrogate For Alpha Dom

3rd Person

The hours pass slowly for Dominic Sinclair as he sits at his mate’s side in the post–surgical suite, willing her to live.

Her hand is held tight within his and his eyes are trained on her face, watching her eyelashes flutter every minute or two. Her chest raises and lowers slowly, shallow breaths coming less frequently than they should. She had survived the night. But just barely.

Sinclair wipes a hand down his face, willing himself to stay awake. The surgery took hours and he had stood stoically at her side for every moment of it. It had been agony, watching them cut her to ribbons, listening to them mumble words he couldn’t understand, trying to fix her like some kind of broken car

As if she wasn’t the most important thing on earth. As if she wasn’t the daughter of the Goddess, the future Queen, the mother of his child and – most important of all –

His f**king mate.

It had taken everything in him to stand there and not wrench the tools from the doctor’s hand, to do something, anything, to fix her out of the sheer will of his desire for her to live.

But in the end, after hours of work, the doctor had just nodded to Sinclair, wiping a bloody hand across his forehead. “We’ve done everything we can,” he had murmured, looking down at Ella. “It’s in her hands now.”

Then, they’d wheeled her into this room, hooked her up to what looked like a thousand ridiculous machines, and just left. Left Sinclair here, holding her hand, waiting to see if she lived or died. But damnit, he wasn’t going to let her die. No f**king way.

Nurses come and go periodically, of course, checking on her, checking on him, letting him know that there have been no turns for the worse, asking if he wanted any food, any water, anything at all. He’d ignored them all, focused only on her. His Luna. The light of his world.

A few hours later, a knock comes at the door. Sinclar glances towards it, expecting another nurse, and blinks and surprise when he sees Cora and Roger standing there.

“Dominic,” Roger, his face full of sorrow, his eyes not going to Ella and instead focusing on Sinclair. Roger opens his mouth to say something else, but Cora interrupts.

hurrying to her sister’s side, glancing between Ella and

murmurs, unwilling to lie to spare Cora’s feelings. “She survived the surgery…but the doctor says it could go either way.

with his hand, unable to

asks,

letting Cora know that he’s still there. He can’t feel my son anymore, can’t feel the bond, but he hopes that Ella can. He hopes

doesn’t know what

her attention on Ella, running her hand over her sister’s forehead, brushing some hair behind her ear. “Come on, kid,” she murmurs. “You have

Roger grip his shoulder. Sinclair looks up at his brother, shaking his head. Roger says nothing, looking at Ella’s

Roger looks up at the television, which has been playing

have the television on?”

hand lightly before dropping it, not understanding. “They said something about… unconscious patients. The sound of human voices. It’s better, apparently. Makes them feel grounded or something.”

the television.

and then looks towards the television. The news is on, but he glares at his brother.” No, Roger, I’m not sitting here watching the news while Ella slips away from me. I’m concentrating

frustrated. “I wouldn’t draw your attention away if it

of Cora. Sinclair blinks, paying more attention now to the words that scroll across the screen, to the picture of Cora

He sees her mouth fall open in a gasp, her eyes press closed as a great flare of light erupts from her, turning the screen white as her brilliance overloads the capacity

leaning closer, and he can see – yes, himself, in the corner of the screen, with Ella in his arms, dashing away

his chair. “I don’t need to see it

pockets, his eyes still on the screen. “But do you know

his forehead, his other still wrapped around Ella’s in the bed. It doesn’t really matter to him what