Chapter Nine
1315 Words
—Dani
Dr. Hale waits until the room settles — until Alana stops shaking, until Alaric stops pacing, until I stop feeling like I might slip out of my own skin again — before she finally speaks.
Her voice is calm. Too calm.
The kind of calm that means she’s worried.
“Dani,” she says gently, “we need to talk about the next steps.”
My stomach twists. “The tests?”
“Yes.” She folds her hands in her lap, posture straight, eyes steady. “I want to explain what they are, and why we need them.”
Alaric moves closer, not sitting, not leaning — just standing behind her like a silent wall of tension. Alana curls deeper into the couch, hugging a pillow to her chest.
Dr. Hale continues.
“Your abilities are responding to emotional triggers. That much is clear. But we don’t yet understand the pattern of that response.”
Pattern.
The word makes my skin prickle.
She holds up a finger.
“The first test is Emotional Threshold.”
“We need to understand how much emotional intensity your body can handle before your abilities react. Not to overwhelm you — simply to identify the point where your energy shifts.”
I swallow. “You’re going to… make me emotional?”
“Not in a harmful way,” she assures me. “We’ll use gentle prompts. Music. Memory cues. Visualization. Nothing traumatic. Nothing uncontrolled.”
Alaric’s jaw tightens at the word “memory,” but he doesn’t interrupt.
Dr. Hale lifts a second finger.
“The second test is Projection Boundaries.”
“We need to determine whether your illusions are internal or external. Whether they affect only you… or the people around you.”
Alana flinches.
I look down at my hands. “You mean like the fire.”
“Yes,” Dr. Hale says softly. “And like what Alana saw earlier.”
Alaric’s eyes flick to his daughter, then back to me. He doesn’t say anything, but the tension in his shoulders sharpens.
Dr. Hale lifts a third finger.
“The third test is Energetic Stability.”
“This is the most important. We need to see how stable your energy is under different conditions. Calm. Stress. Focus. Distraction.”
I feel sick. “Why?”
“Because,” she says gently, “we need to know whether your abilities activate only when you’re overwhelmed… or if they can activate unintentionally.”
Unintentionally.
The word hits me like a punch.
Alana whispers, “Like… if she could make something happen without meaning to.”
Dr. Hale nods. “Exactly.”
Alaric steps forward, voice low. “She won’t hurt anyone.”
Dr. Hale doesn’t contradict him. But she doesn’t agree, either.
Instead, she turns back to me.
“Dani, these tests aren’t about proving you’re dangerous. They’re about understanding what’s happening inside you. Your abilities are waking up quickly — faster than I’ve ever seen — and we need to get ahead of it.”
I wrap my arms around myself. “And if we don’t?”
She hesitates.
Then says the truth anyway.
“Then your abilities will continue to react on their own.”
My breath catches.
Alaric moves closer, his voice softer now. “Dani. We’re going to figure this out.”
Dr. Hale nods. “One step at a time. Slowly. Carefully. With you in control.”
Control.
I don’t feel like I have any.
But I nod anyway.
Because what else can I do?
Dr. Hale stands. “We’ll begin the first test in the morning. For tonight, you need rest.”
Rest.
As if sleep is even possible.
She gives me one last long look — thoughtful, worried, calculating — then turns toward the hallway.
Alana follows her.
Alaric stays.
And I sit there, staring into the fire, wondering how many more pieces of me are going to unravel before I understand what I am.
— Alaric
After the Tests Are Explained
The moment the door clicks shut behind Hale and Alana, the room goes too quiet.
Dani sits on the rug in front of the fire, staring into the flames like she’s afraid they’ll shift again. Her shoulders are tight, her breathing shallow, her hands curled into fists in her lap.
She looks small.
Fragile.
Breakable.
And I hate it.
I hate that she’s scared.
I hate that she’s confused.
I hate that I can’t take any of this from her.
But more than anything, I hate the fear twisting in my own chest — the fear I can’t let her see.
I take a slow breath, forcing my voice steady. “Dani.”
She doesn’t look at me.
Her eyes stay locked on the fire.
I move closer, but not too close. Not close enough to overwhelm her again. Not close enough to let my emotions bleed into hers.
“Dani,” I say again, softer this time.
She finally turns her head, and the look in her eyes nearly knocks the air out of me.
She’s terrified.
Not of me.
Of herself.
“I didn’t mean to do it,” she whispers. “Any of it.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t want Alana to see—”
“I know,” I repeat, firmer this time. “You didn’t choose it.”
She swallows hard. “But what if I do it again? What if I can’t stop it? What if—”
“You will learn control,” I say, cutting her off gently. “Hale will help you. I’ll help you.”
Her eyes flicker, uncertain. “You don’t know that.”
I do.
I know it with a certainty that scares me.
But I can’t tell her why.
I sit on the edge of the couch, close enough to speak quietly, far enough not to crowd her.
“You stabilized,” I say. “You grounded yourself. That’s not nothing.”
She shakes her head. “Only because I focused on—”
She stops.
On me.
She doesn’t say it, but I feel it.
Like a pulse in the air.
Like a thread pulling tight between us.
I clear my throat. “Whatever helped you, it worked.”
She looks away quickly, cheeks flushing.
The fire crackles between us.
I watch her for a long moment — the way her breath trembles, the way her fingers twitch like she’s afraid to move, the way her energy hums just beneath her skin.
She’s not just powerful.
She’s unstable.
And that combination is dangerous.
Not because she’ll hurt someone.
Because someone will try to hurt her.
Hale is right — we need answers.
We need tests.
We need control.
But none of that changes the truth clawing at my ribs.
I almost lost her today.
Not physically.
Not literally.
But to fear.
To panic.
To a power she doesn’t understand.
And the thought of losing her — in any way — makes something primal and ancient twist inside me.
I stand slowly. “You should rest.”
She lets out a humorless laugh. “I don’t think I can.”
“You don’t have to sleep,” I say. “Just… breathe. Let your body settle.”
She nods, but she doesn’t look convinced.
I turn toward the hallway, forcing myself to leave before I say something I shouldn’t. Before I let the truth slip out. Before I let her see how much this is tearing me apart.
But her voice stops me at the doorway.
“Alaric?”
I turn.
She’s looking at me like she’s searching for something — reassurance, safety, answers I don’t have.
“Thank you,” she whispers. “For… staying.”
My chest tightens.
I nod once. “Always.”
And I leave before the word can mean more than it should.
---
- Writer
