"How could I think about the future when the present was slipping through my fingers?"

"How could I think about the future when the present was slipping through my fingers?"
I woke to an odd, familiar sound—soft at first, like a memory brushing against the edge of sleep. Then it grew, echoing through the dim space in uneven waves. Kairn’s voice. Low, strained, and unmistakably his, even though the words were slurred beyond recognition.

For a heartbeat, I didn’t move. My mind clung to the fragile belief that I was still dreaming, that this was some phantom echo conjured by longing. But the sound came again, rougher this time, and my eyes snapped open.

“Kairn?” I bolted upright as my head whipped toward him. The night before, his breathing had been steady—too steady, the kind of stillness that made my chest tighten with dread. But now he tossed and turned in the cot, limbs twitching, breath catching, mumbling incoherently.

A spark flared in me—bright, reckless, desperate. Hope. The kind that hurts more than any wound.

I didn’t hesitate. Grimacing, I ripped the IV from my arm. The sting barely registered. Blood welled and dripped in a thin trail behind me as I stumbled out of my cot and leaned over his.

“My love?” The words came out breathless, trembling. I pressed my palm to his forehead, half expecting him to lean into the touch, to open his eyes, to say my name.

But he didn’t. He only shifted again, brow furrowing, lips moving in a soundless plea. His body was here, but his mind—his spirit—was still trapped somewhere far beyond my reach.

The spark inside me guttered. Turned to ash. Dissipated like smoke in a cold wind.

“Kairn…” My voice cracked as I waited for any sign that he knew I was there. “I know, my love. I know you’re trying to come back to me.” I leaned over him, brushing a kiss against his cheek. A tear slipped free, landing on his skin and vanishing instantly, as if even my grief couldn’t linger on him for long.

I hated seeing the twins like this—caught between worlds, unable to wake, slow to heal, trapped in pain they couldn’t voice. Every moment I spent at their side was a battle between necessity and agony. I couldn’t leave them. I wouldn’t. But staying… staying carved pieces out of me one breath at a time.

I rested my forehead against his shoulder, letting myself feel the rise and fall of his chest. It was shallow, uneven, but it was movement. Life. Proof that he was still fighting.

A sudden spike in his breathing made me jerk upright. His body tensed, fingers curling into the blanket. A low groan escaped him.

“Kairn?” My heart leapt again, foolishly, hopeful, terrified. “Can you hear me? Please… please, just give me something, baby.”

But his eyes remained closed. His face twisted in pain. Whatever battle he was fighting, it wasn’t here with me.

“Damaris!” My voice cracked on her name.

She emerged from her private room almost instantly, robes swishing around her ankles as she hurried to the bedside. Her expression shifted the moment she saw him—concern, calculation, something like pity.

“What’s happening?” I demanded, though I already knew she didn’t have the answers I wanted.

She didn’t respond right away. Instead, she reached for a small vial on the nearby table, her movements quick and practiced. “I’m going to put this in his IV,” she murmured.

“What is it?” The question came out sharper than intended, edged with fear.

“Nightshade extract,” she replied, inserting the needle into the tube with steady hands. “Only a few drops.”

I watched the dark liquid slide into the line, watched it disappear into him. Within seconds, his body relaxed. The tension drained from his limbs. The mumbling ceased. His breathing evened out again.

“He’ll be more comfortable now,” Damaris said softly.

Comfortable. The word felt like a cruel compromise. I didn’t want him comfortable—I wanted him awake. I wanted him back. I wanted both of them back.

“But… is it a good sign?” I asked, my voice thin with desperation. “He was moving, making sounds. Could he be waking up?”

Damaris hesitated. That alone made my stomach twist.

“I’m not sure, Luna.” Her tone was solemn, careful, like she was afraid to offer me too much hope. “It could mean many things. With luck, the Council will have answers for us soon. In the meantime…”

She reached for my arm before I could pull away. Her fingers wrapped around my wrist, gentle but firm, guiding it toward her. Only then did I notice the blood still trickling from where I’d torn the IV free.

“You need to be taking care of yourself and the pup,” she said, wrapping a bandage around my elbow with efficiency.

I stared at the white cloth as it soaked up the red. My blood. My life. A reminder that I wasn’t just fighting for Kairn and Skye—I was fighting for the tiny heartbeat inside me. For our future. For the family we were supposed to have.

But how could I think about the future when the present was slipping through my fingers?

“And you… won’t say anything to anyone?” I asked quietly. The question tasted like guilt and fear.

“Healers are sworn to the secrecy of our patients,” she assured me. “I understand that you want to keep this under wraps, given the circumstances.”

I nodded, though the reassurance did little to ease the knot in my chest. Secrets had weight. And mine felt heavier every day. I wanted to offer the pack hope and excitement, but doing so without Skye and Kairn felt like another betrayal.

When Damaris stepped away to clean her tools, I turned back to Kairn. His face was peaceful now—too peaceful. The kind of stillness that mocked me with its serenity.

I reached out and took his hand in both of mine, pressing it to my cheek. “You scared me,” I whispered. “You always do. You give me just enough to hope, and then you slip away again.”

My voice trembled. “I don’t know how many more times I can do this.”

But even as I said it, I knew the truth: I would do it as many times as it took. A thousand times. A million. Because hope—fragile, painful, stubborn hope—was all I had left.

And losing it would mean losing him, losing Skye, losing my heart.