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

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

his hand, unable to

Cora asks, desperate.

bond, but

but he doesn’t

her hand over her sister’s forehead, brushing some

the moment with her sister, but he takes the hand from his face when he feels Roger grip his shoulder.

television, which has been playing lightly in the corner for hours on

the television

turn it off, but,” he lifts a 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.” Roger frowns at his brother, confused, but Sinclair just shakes his head. Whatever. It can’t

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

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

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

To his surprise, it’s an image of Cora. Sinclair blinks, paying more attention now to the words that scroll across the screen, to the picture of Cora glowing with a bright white light, her clasped hands raised above

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 of whatever camera was trained on her. It’s an unrefined image, probably something taken from a security camera, so

panting, looking out onto the square. Sinclair squints, leaning closer, and he can see –

his chair. “I don’t need to see it again on

hands into his pockets, his eyes still on the screen. “But

Ella’s in the bed. It doesn’t really matter to him what Cora did, not really. Because whatever it was, Ella had