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.

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

“She survived the surgery…but the doctor says it could go either way. And that it’s

covers his face with his hand, unable to say

child?” Cora asks, desperate. “The

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 that they’re holding on to each other, in their unconscious state. He

he doesn’t know

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

anything, letting Cora have the moment with her sister, but he takes the hand from his face when he feels Roger grip

which has been playing lightly in

have the television

nurses did it,” Sinclair responds, shrugging noncommittally. “I asked them to turn it off, but,” he lifts a hand lightly before dropping it, not understanding. “They said something about… unconscious

but then looks back at the television. “Have you seen

at his brother.” No, Roger, I’m not sitting here watching

Roger throws back, frustrated. “I wouldn’t draw your attention

surprise, it’s an image of Cora. Sinclair blinks, paying more attention now to

her, turning the screen white as her brilliance overloads the capacity of whatever camera was trained on her. It’s an unrefined image, probably something

the light fades, Cora stands panting, looking out onto the square. Sinclair squints, leaning closer, and he can see – yes, himself, in the corner of the screen, with Ella

murmurs, leaning back in his chair. “I don’t need to see it again

hands into his pockets, his eyes still on the screen. “But do you know what she

raising one hand to his forehead, his other still wrapped around Ella’s in the bed. It doesn’t really matter to him what Cora did, not really. Because whatever it was, Ella had tried to do it