Chapter 163
Ellie's POV
The fluorescent lights in the family waiting area hummed with a frequency that made my teeth ache. 3:17 AM, according to the wall clock that ticked with excruciating slowness. I'd been sitting in this plastic chair for forty-three minutes, watching the second hand crawl while Samantha Grey screamed about monsters in a locked observation room down the hall.
She saw. She knows. The human saw everything.
Thalia's voice had been a constant whisper since we'd left the apartment, a cold reminder of what happened when secrets were exposed. I pressed my palms against my thighs, feeling the rough denim of my jeans, grounding myself in something real and solid.
The door to the observation wing opened. Jackson came through first, moving with that controlled precision that meant he was barely holding it together. Behind him, Lucas stumbled like a ghost—red-rimmed eyes, shoulders hunched, the picture of a boyfriend who'd just watched his girlfriend have a complete psychotic break.
Which, technically, he had.
"Miss Green." Dr. Blake appeared from the nurses' station, clipboard in hand. Mid-fifties, silver-streaked hair pulled back severely, the kind of psychiatrist who'd seen everything and believed nothing. "Thank you for waiting. I need to ask you and your friends a few questions about the party Miss Grey attended."
I stood, feeling Jackson's presence at my right shoulder. Protective. Solid. The mate bond hummed between us, a lifeline in the chaos.
"Of course," I heard myself say. My voice came out steady. Detached. Like I was reading from a script. "Whatever you need."
We sat in a triangle of molded plastic chairs while Dr. Blake took notes. Lucas stared at his hands. Jackson's knee pressed against mine—the only indication he was as terrified as I was.
"Walk me through the evening," Dr. Blake said.
I repeated the story we'd constructed. Party at off-campus housing. Samantha had a drink. Started acting strange. Became paranoid, aggressive. I found her collapsed, brought her to the medical center.
"And you two?" Dr. Blake's gaze shifted to Jackson and Lucas.
"I got Ellie's text and drove straight here." Jackson's medical student persona slid into place effortlessly. "Based on her symptoms—dilated pupils, elevated heart rate, paranoid ideation—I suspected some kind of hallucinogen. Possibly a synthetic cannabinoid or dissociative."
Lucas finally spoke, his voice rough as gravel. "I was at basketball practice. When I got her messages..." He swallowed hard. "Is Samantha going to be okay?"
The concern in his voice wasn't entirely fake. Whatever Lucas felt about Samantha—whatever tangled mess of guilt and obligation and fading affection—he'd never wanted this.
Dr. Blake's expression softened fractionally. "The physical injuries are minor. Head contusion, some bruising. It's the psychological presentation that concerns me." She flipped through her notes, her frown deepening. "Even under sedation, Miss Grey is experiencing complete cognitive breakdown. She doesn't recognize her own surroundings. Can't identify people she should know—nurses who've been treating her, even her own reflection in the mirror."
My throat constricted. Jackson's hand found mine under the clipboard's line of sight.
"Dissociative episode?" Jackson offered carefully. "If the head trauma combined with whatever substance—"
"That's our working theory." Dr. Blake's tone suggested she wasn't entirely convinced. "But the severity is unusual. Her speech is completely fragmented. She cycles through what seem like unrelated memories—childhood recollections, recent events, things that may or may not have happened. No coherent timeline. No recognition of present reality."
She glanced at her notes again. "She's mentioned wolves a few times, among dozens of other disconnected images. Monsters. Blood. Someone named 'Mom.' Apologies for things that make no sense in context. It's like her entire cognitive framework has shattered."
"The drug in her system could cause that level of dissociation," Jackson said, his medical student persona steady. "Depending on the compound—particularly if it was a high dose of a dissociative hallucinogen—"
"Possibly," Dr. Blake interrupted. "Combined with the head injury, yes. But I've rarely seen this degree of personality fragmentation from substance alone." She closed the file. "I'm recommending immediate transfer to psychiatric evaluation. Dr. Morrison will do a full assessment in the morning. In the meantime, I need emergency contact information. Does Miss Grey have family in the area?"
"Her foster mother," I said quietly. "Margaret Grey. I can get you the number."
Dawn came slowly, gray light seeping through the waiting room windows. Jackson had gone to get coffee—real coffee, not the waiting room sludge. Lucas sat three chairs away, maintaining careful distance.
My phone buzzed. A text from Lily: OMG are you still at the hospital?? Is Samantha okay???
I typed back: Still here. Doctors are evaluating. Will update later.
"Ellie." Lucas's voice startled me. "Can we... can I talk to you?"
I looked at him—really looked—for the first time since the apartment. He'd aged a decade in six hours. Dark circles shadowed his eyes. His basketball hoodie hung loose, like he'd lost weight he couldn't afford to lose.
"What is there to say, Lucas?"
"I'm sorry." The words came out broken. "For everything. For bringing her into our world. For not listening when you tried to warn me. For—" His voice cracked. "For what she saw. What I made her see."
Conall, his wolf, must have been tearing him apart from the inside. The worst possible time for this kind of emotional devastation.
"You didn't make Caleb show up," I said, softer than intended. "You didn't force him to—"
"I lost control." Lucas's hands clenched into fists. "I should have been stronger. Should have walked away. But I saw them together and I just... I couldn't..." He looked up at me with raw, desperate eyes. "She's terrified of me now. Of what I am. And she has every right to be."
Before I could respond, Jackson returned with three paper cups. He handed one to me, offered one to Lucas. A peace offering. An acknowledgment of shared guilt.
"Social worker just arrived," Jackson said quietly. "Kate Palmer. She's running background checks for the psych evaluation."
My stomach dropped. "Background checks?"
"Standard procedure for involuntary psychiatric holds." Jackson's jaw tightened. "They need complete medical history, family dynamics, any previous trauma..."
The implications settled over us like a shroud.