My overriding thought was how incredibly tired I was. I'd been home, or rather, at Pack's house, for six weeks, awake for less than five days. "Awake" is perhaps an overstatement; my infection was severe, leaving me weak, thin, and restless, crawling on the floor, as usual. However, the males' desperate attempts to help meant we were allowed periods of wakefulness, encouraged to eat, and move.
Mariella lay beside me, her attitude grating on my nerves. We all suffered, of course, but as Damon's protector and soulmate, our bond remained strong, and I felt his pain acutely, amplified by Mariella's incessant sniping, which continued even when he entered the room. I was on the toilet, having just finished. Unable to stand, I flushed and began crawling back to bed.
Mariella woke, sneering. "Good going, tortoise. You might make it before the 'fuckers' arrive. Chop chop."
She was in partial traction, her muscles and tendons requiring constant work; they made her walk daily, a painful process. Mimosa, Shadow, Elena, and Katherine were sedated; our waking hours were staggered to prevent everyone from being awake simultaneously.
The cold, unforgiving floor remained a constant beneath me, yet I persevered, crawling towards my bed, shaking with fever and exhaustion. My survival instinct, however, pushed me onward. Mariella's commentary, while unhelpful, didn't anger me; it simply intensified my fatigue, as if her negativity drained my energy.
I was exhausted, and as I heard footsteps—either Taylor or Tim—strong hands scooped me up. The scent of passionfruit and old books wafted in, revealing Wulfe and Damon's arrival.
Damon said, "Wait a minute, let me adjust her bed," but Wulfe replied, "I can do it. You go get the meds ready."
While Wulfe changed my sweaty linens and made the bed more comfortable, Damon went to the drug cabinet, gathering antibiotics, sedatives, new lines, and cannulas.
Mariella continuously commented, "Did we disturb you, Damon? How long until the next party? Should we make them routine? Force me to watch you fucking with others? I do understand Mimi so much better and she is freaking saint to tolerate that for decades, if I weren't this weak, I would attack you, beat you pulp, castrate you."
Damon stiffened but remained silent; his pain resonated through our bond, but I was too tired to comfort him.
As Wulfe tucked me back into bed, noting, "You're burning up," he told Damon, "We need fever medication; she's hot again."
Damon grunted, and as he approached to insert the lines, Numbers Two and Three entered to check the test results. I felt Wulfe probing my memories, but I kept them hidden.
To distract him, I telepathically asked, "Could you help? Mariella's comments hurt Damon. I feel his pain; I'm his protector and alpha. Can you make Mariella understand? His pain exhausts me even more."
He nodded, replying in my mind, "Anything for you, my unicorn," but he avoided touching me, sensing our aversion.
He then approached Numbers Two and Three.
Number Three glanced at Mariella, fetched a syringe from the cabinet, and approached her, clinically stating, "Time for a nap, darling."
Before Mariella could react, he injected her cannula, and she passed out. At least that would provide some temporary relief. Soon, I was unconscious, as Damon efficiently cannulated me. His touch was purely professional and clinical, despite sensing his desire to caress me.
I couldn't tolerate it; perhaps if I were fully healed and empowered, but not now. He injected the syringe into my cannula, shutting down my mind instantly—long before the fever medication took effect—making it easier for them to clean me while I was out cold, my aversion to a touch too intense.
I was, as usual, an impatient, the universe's most difficult patient, but things were different this time. First, I quickly learned that it was better—relatively speaking—for me if Elena or, especially, Katherine were awake. If they noticed me stirring, moaning, or trying to get up, they'd sound the alarm, summoning someone well before I could even attempt to stand, or sometimes even remove my cannulas.
Someone would quickly be at my side, removing tubes as needed, helping me to the bathroom, and preventing falls. The men noticed this pattern too, and increasingly, they were awake whenever I was. Mariella, however, remained unconcerned, merely offering sarcastic comments and nicknames like "tortoise" or "ghost."
Despite the men's attentiveness, my infection, as well nasty one for Mimosa, too, persisted. Elena, Katherine, and, surprisingly, even Mariella, healed faster than I did. Mariella, however, had a lot of physical therapy with Magnum, which she soon came to resent.
I was weak and ill, often kept sedated to ensure sleep, though thankfully free of nightmares. They'd crafted dreamcatchers—or rather, nightmare catchers—from minerals and stones found in the lapidary room, imbuing them with spells. Each of us had one of these stone ornaments hanging; not official dreamcatchers, but more like collections of stones in hanging baskets, absorbing our nightmares and bad thoughts. These stones were replaced almost daily, but they retained no specific memories.
I was sick and tired of being sick and tired, yet it ignited no rage, no spunk, not even a flicker of irritation. I felt as empty as ever, even though my pheromones had fully regenerated and, for the first time in months, my enzyme levels were sufficient or even decent, according to the blood test.
Consequently, my food absorbed better, and I experienced slight physical improvement, but the progress was slow. I knew it would be a long time before I could walk properly. Magnum, having seen me on my feet, coldly informed me that I was nowhere near ready to walk; even sitting on the edge of the bed required short periods and help, as my body hadn't fully recovered.
My blood sugar levels still crashed unpredictably, meaning someone had to be near me to prevent me from falling. I hated—or perhaps disliked, is a better word—being so dependent. There was nothing I could do. Without my powers, I was nothing, nobody.
I briefly wondered if Damon would someday replace me, now that Elena and Katherine were developing their own alpha powers. Of course, this self-deprecating thought was a result of the deep-seated brainwashing, which I hadn't even noticed, fought against, or rejected. I had simply accepted it, allowing it to take root and become my belief.
I had no sense of time, no idea if it was even the same day I usually woke up. I tried to move, but I could never do it well. The infection was merciless. Even the men who fed us—they brought me food, which was tasty and I could eat—it didn't stick. My body burned calories so fast.
I felt hollow; my rage was absent, my grip on my powers was weak. I sensed Alpha power growing in Elena and Katherine, but that was all—sensing, not acting. This pissed me off—well, that's perhaps too strong, but it frustrated me. Sometimes I felt almost depressed, wishing I didn't exist.
At other times, I accepted this as my punishment, resigned to learning to live like this, to be humble, to stop being a superhero. Maybe in time, this lesson would sink in, and I'd learn to appreciate what I had. My mood swung wildly, but as usual, I hid it completely, concealing my thoughts and feelings.
Even Wulfe tried to delve into my mind, but I distracted him—sometimes by having Samuel teach him magic. Samuel's impatience amused Wulfe and kept him suitably occupied, preventing him from constantly harassing me, or what was left of me.
I kept all of this inside, for if I had been wise enough to confide in someone, they might have perceived my thoughts and sensations as signs of brainwashing. However, that was precisely what the sadists at that facility had counted on.
They had studied me, my mind, and my habits, somehow learning that I would conceal my weaknesses, allowing the brainwashing to take root and potentially become permanent, effectively neutralizing me. That's a terrifying thought. It demonstrated the power—or perhaps the limitations of my willpower.
Even Damon repeatedly assured me that no rage blocker was present, and that he could detect my rage; however, I believed they had severed my connection to it. Perhaps Damon lied, or perhaps he glossed over the truth to comfort me. I couldn't trust his word; this insidious programming had so thoroughly muddled my mind that I doubted everything and everyone.
Yet, one thing remained certain: although they had secured and locked away my darkness, I could still feel it. Therefore, revenge would be mine alone, and I would keep it that way, revealing nothing to anyone. While I did know our location and could recall names and faces, these memories were buried so deep within my mind that no one could unearth them.
Damon reviewed the latest test results. Mimi had improved, but the progress was slow, and it had been well over a month. He knew her powers were still severely compromised, and further interference wouldn't help.
He hated feeling helpless. He could help others, but Mimi consistently received the least assistance; there was simply nothing more they could offer her. Time was needed, and his impatience gnawed at him. Mariella's scorn was difficult to bear, but he deserved it. His weakness and arrogance had left him vulnerable to the spell, but that wouldn't happen again. They had taken steps to ensure it.
Furthermore, they were educating each other on all things Hive: magic stones and more. Even those without magical abilities had roles to play. Dresden, Wulfe, and Constantine had crafted special stones embedded deep within their tissues, providing another layer of protection against evil spells.
Infused with love, pack loyalty, and power, these stones would reflect any harmful spells while boosting their recipients with positive memories and energies. Best of all, they were self-replenishing, drawing power from the Hive, their memories, and the surrounding environment. They were learning and taking action.
This ordeal had been devastating, and Damon couldn't escape self-blame. He'd found countless reasons why it happened, why it was all his fault, and how he'd failed as pack leader. Mariella's absence prevented him from breaking the cycle of self-recrimination, which spiraled into a vortex of self-flagellation and hatred.
Adding to his frustration was their inability to access any fading memories in the females' minds, any clue to help them understand what they'd endured. It seemed the trauma ran too deep. Even a hint would help, but for now, there were no leads. Perhaps Mimi's suggestion had contributed to this, or perhaps the brutal brainwashing had simply broken something irreparably within them. This realization broke something inside him.
He hoped that once Mimi improved, she might offer a clue on how to help others. Alternatively, someone might have a fleeting insight. However, another problem arose: Numbers Two and Four had realized this, and even in the future, it wouldn't be good. Damon felt a looming obligation – revenge, making those responsible pay.
Yet again, the information resided in Mimi's mind, and she refused to divulge it. Therefore, they lacked an enemy to attack. Number Two was certain that once Mimi was able, she would attack those bastards. Considering Mimi's inherent darkness, now once more contained, it would be a gruesome spectacle.
That reckoning, however, could wait. Currently, he was trying to find a way to convince Mimi that her rage remained intact; he'd tried to extract it, but no, her rage was merely sedated. Damon understood that her willpower, at least partially, had suppressed it. He knew from personal experience that rage was a driving force, and it needed to be awakened. But how, when, and by whom?
So many difficult questions to consider, and since there were six women, he couldn't solely focus on Mimi and her problems, but had to try and help everyone. He knew it would take time to bring Mariella to her senses and purge the worst of her foolishness. Perhaps someday they could move on, but how, when, and why? Why should he have a good time after being so weak and letting it happen?
He still felt everything: the lingering scent of arousal, perfume, booze, and bodies from that party. Why wasn't his love for Mariella strong enough? Had he somehow corrupted it by focusing on Mimi, or had it diluted over time? And that jab Mariella made, about new parties—was he strong enough to swear it off forever? He didn't know. God damn it! Frustrated, he slammed his fist into the wall, cracking it and cursing under his breath.
Mimi had bought the light blue curtains for the medbay windows, he remembered. The bare floor, necessary for cleanliness, made the room feel sterile and cold. The antiseptic smell of the hospital hung heavy in the air—a logical necessity, since paramount cleanliness was crucial for these already sick women. Any additional infection would be disastrous.
This was just another burden to bear. They tried to make the space as comfortable as possible for the women, but the need for sterility and healing limited what could be done. Damon cursed inwardly. Nesting wasn't the answer; this was far worse and would require extreme therapy.
They might even have to force it upon the women, simply heal them, and hope for the best. It wasn't easy, and it never would be, but it was for the greater good. Damon hated that; he wanted to act out of love, not obligation, but he didn't always have a choice. The conflict burned within him like wildfire.