Chapter 210

Chapter 210
Elora

I don't know how long I've been asleep.

In the dream, there's only peace. No Sienna. No Victoria. No screaming, no blood, no scalpels glinting in the dark. Just warmth. Just light. Just the three of us—Mom, Dad, and me—sitting together in the arena stands, watching a younger version of myself glide across the ice. Mom's clapping, her face bright with pride. Dad's smiling, genuinely smiling, in a way I haven't seen in years.

They're both there. Both alive. Both mine.

I'm spinning on the ice, executing a perfect triple axel, and for once, nothing hurts. My back doesn't itch. My scars don't burn. There's no weight pressing down on my chest, no fear clawing at my throat. Just the cool air against my face and the sound of their applause echoing through the empty rink.

But then something shifts.

Mom's smile begins to blur at the edges, like a photograph left too long in the sun. The light around her grows brighter, harsher, until I can barely make out her features. I try to call out to her, but my voice won't come. The brightness spreads, swallowing everything—the ice, the stands, my parents—until there's nothing left but white, blinding light.

And then I open my eyes.

The first thing I see is Cade's face. Then Dad's. They're sitting on either side of my bed, staring at me with identical expressions of relief and worry. Before I can fully process what's happening, before I can even try to move, both of them grab my hands at the same time.

"Elora!" they say in unison. "Slow down. You just woke up. Don't move."

I blink at them, still half-caught in the dream, my brain struggling to catch up with reality. My throat feels dry, my limbs heavy. Everything's a little too bright, a little too sharp.

"God," I croak, my voice rough from disuse. "How long was I out?"

I glance at Dad, really look at him for the first time since waking. He's sitting up straight, no longer pale and half-dead in a hospital bed. His eyes are clear, alert, focused entirely on me. There's something different in his expression—something I haven't seen in years. No calculation. No cold assessment of how I might be useful to him. Just raw, unguarded concern.

"Dad," I say slowly, testing the word. "You're… you're really okay?"

He smiles, and it's not the polished, politician's smile I'm used to. It's real. Tired, but real.

"Of course I'm okay," he says. "Ever since I woke up, I've been fine."

Then his expression shifts—something raw flashing across his face, like he's reliving that moment.

"And the doctors said it was a miracle I woke up when I did. They couldn't explain it. Maybe it was luck. Maybe it was—" He pauses, voice dropping. "Maybe it was your mother looking out for you."

His hand tightens around mine, trembling slightly. "But whatever it was, I'm grateful. God, Elora, I'm so grateful."

His jaw clenches. "If I'd opened my eyes even thirty seconds later—"

He stops. Swallows hard.

"You would've been dead, Elora. And I would've failed you the same way I failed your mother." He lifts his head, eyes red-rimmed. "I can't do that again. I won't."

I stare at him, not sure what to say. This version of my father—vulnerable, regretful, —is still strange to see, but I'm starting to get used to it.

Cade clears his throat, breaking the tension. He leans back in his chair, one eyebrow raised in mock exasperation.

"Alistair," he says dryly, "Elora just woke up. You really want her first conscious moments to be filled with guilt trips and emotional baggage?"

Dad blinks, then lets out a short, embarrassed laugh. "You're right. Sorry, Elora. I didn't mean to—" He shakes his head, standing up. "Let me go get you something to eat. You two talk. I'll be back in a bit."

He squeezes my hand once before leaving, and I watch him go, still trying to wrap my head around this new, softer version of my father.

The moment the door clicks shut, Cade's grip on my other hand tightens. His expression shifts—less teasing now, more serious.

"Elora," he says quietly, "actually, I have something I need to say to you too." He pauses, his jaw tightening. "I'm sorry. I should've been there. I should have been with you when Sienna showed up."

I narrow my eyes at him. "Don't start."

"I'm serious. There was a patient—complications during the evacuation. I had to stay and help. If I'd known—"

I reach over with my free hand and pinch his arm. Hard.

"Ow! What the hell?"

"You just finished lecturing my dad about guilt trips, and now you're doing the same thing?" I snap. "It's over, Cade. You didn't know Sienna was coming. Neither did I. So stop apologizing and just—" I pause, narrowing my eyes at him. "Wait. You're avoiding my question. How long was I out?"

Cade gets up, moving to the small table by the window where a pitcher of water sits. He pours a glass slowly, deliberately, like he's stalling.

"Ten days," he says finally, handing me the water.

I nearly choke on the first sip.

"Ten days?" I set the glass down harder than I intended, water sloshing over the rim. "Fuck. My competition's in a few days!"

Cade raises an eyebrow, crossing his arms. "You planning to compete in this condition?"

I glance down at myself, flexing my arms and legs experimentally. Everything aches—the dull, stiff kind of pain that comes from lying still for too long—but nothing feels broken. My left arm has a bandage wrapped around it, and there's another binding tight around my ribs where Sienna's scalpel went in. When I press on both spots, there's no sharp pain. Just numbness.

I sit up straighter, stretching my torso. "I feel fine. A little sore, but nothing I can't handle. I could start training today if I wanted to."

Cade moves closer, steadying me with one hand on my shoulder. "I'm not talking about those parts."

I frown. "What other parts are there?"

He doesn't answer. Instead, he picks up a small hand mirror from the bedside table and holds it out to me, pointing at his own back.

I take the mirror, confused, and twist around to look. My hospital gown has slipped down slightly, revealing the edge of a medical bandage wrapped around my upper back and shoulders. I pull the fabric down further, and my breath catches.

The areas where my psoriasis used to flare—the rough, scaly patches that had plagued me for years—are all covered in clean, white bandages.

"What the fuck?" I mutter, twisting further to get a better look. "I don't remember Sienna stabbing me in the back."

Cade's lips twitch into a faint smile. "She didn't."

I turn to face him, still holding the mirror. "Then why—"