The Alpha's Hybrid

One

PHOENIX

Two Years Later

I stood in front of the hospital ward, wriggling my fingers, my nerves shot. My heart beat erratically—like a drum in the hands of a drunkard.

I trembled. Beyond nervous.

I bounced on my feet, my body trembling as I drew a shaky breath, trying to rein in my wandering thoughts. I began to count in my head, trying to calm my nerves—when a throat cleared in the distance, snapping me out of my reverie.

I turned—and met sparkling sea-blue eyes.

Dr. Ashley.

She beamed at me, her deep blue eyes gleaming with warmth as she pulled me into an embrace. Her strawberry scent enveloped me, and I breathed it in—greedily, desperately—my nerves quieting. She had that effect on people—calming, soothing.

"Phoenix! Good to see you. I take it you're here to see Katerine?" she said, her blue eyes crinkling with delight.

I smiled—her warmth washing over me, pulling me back to childhood. Aunt Ashley was my mother's best friend.

"Yes, Aunt Ash. I just thought I'd drop by and bring her breakfast," I replied gently.

She nodded, her black permed curls bouncing as she looked at me with understanding. "Sure, dear. Just make sure no one sees you with the food. The hospital has its own rules, you know," she whispered conspiratorially, her eyebrows wrinkling with amusement.

I smiled—forgetting how long it had been since I'd done that. Then my face fell as the reason for my visit crashed back.

"How is Mom doing?" I asked—though I already knew.

Aunt Ash frowned. Her smile vanished. My heart dropped.

"Still the same, dear. We're trying our best, though."

She saw the crestfallen look on my face and quickly added, trying to lift my spirits: "I'll notify you as soon as anything changes."

I gave her a sad, defeated smile.

"Why don't you go in and see her?"

I saw something in her eyes. Pity.

No.

My heart pounded—almost deafeningly. I nodded, dread pooling in my stomach.

I walked into the hospital ward—and my breath left me.

Tears burned in my eyes as I saw my mother lying on the bed—unmoving. Her honey-brown hair, once slick and shiny, now lay frizzy, splayed across the pillow. Her porcelain skin, once like new china, now looked pale and lifeless. She'd lost weight—so much weight. She lay pale, weak, barely there.

Wires attached to her wrists, her chest, her arms. A ventilator hissed beside her. A feeding tube snaked through her nostril into her cold body. In the distance, the heart monitor beeped—slow, steady, the only proof she was still here.

I stared at the IV drip connected to her left hand—and hated it.

If only a miracle would come.

Two years. Two years since...

I swallowed back my tears, shook my head—and approached her.

I sat on her right and took her frail hand in mine—trying, failing, to hold back the tears.

I lost the battle. I let the tears fall—anger, sadness, pain, longing. All of it. Everything I'd held back for two years. Everything.

"Hey, Mom," I whispered, my voice thick. I choked down a sob.

My nose ran. My hands shook.

"I brought you breakfast. Your favorite."

My breath caught. I tried—failed—to hold it together. Fresh tears burst from me, sobs tearing through my chest.

"Mom, you've been like this for two years. Won't you wake up—for me?"

Angry tears streamed down my face. I was broken.

"Do you think if Dad came back, he'd want to see you like this? Please wake up, Mom."

My heart sank. It broke me—seeing her like this. Half dead. Half alive. Barely hanging on. I didn't even know if she could hear me.

I held her hand and cried—my body shaking—until I forced myself to let go.

I had to get to work.

I stood and wiped my face clean. I turned to look at my mother—renewed conviction hardening in my chest. I had to be strong. For her. For what was left of my family.

I kissed her sunken cheek—goodbye until morning.

My throat closed. I pushed back the tears. Be strong. Be strong.

I left quickly—knowing if I stayed, I'd break again.

I passed Dr. Ashley on the way—and silently begged her with my eyes to take care of Mom.

She nodded and smiled.

I walked into the cold morning—off to work.

One thought circled my mind, over and over:

It was all my fault.