Mated to Her Alpha Instructor (Eileen and Regis) novel Chapter 175

Chapter 175

Nina

The morning light filtering through the infirmary windows felt accusatory as I fumbled with the silver root extract, my hands trembling so badly the vial nearly slipped from my grip. The crash never came–Dr. Hawthorne’s steady hand caught it mid–fall, his weathered face creasing with concern rather than irritation.

“Nina. His voice was gentle, the kind of gentleness that made my throat tight. “When did you last sleep? And I mean truly sleep, not whatever you’ve been

doing these past nights.”

“I’m fine.” The lie tasted bitter. “Just need more tea.”

“What you need,” he said, setting the vial down with deliberate care, ‘is rest. Medical rest. That’s not a suggestion, Grey–it’s a prescription.”

My fingers curled into fists against my apron. “Dr. Hawthorne, I can work. I won’t make mistakes-

“You look like you’re about to collapse. His tone remained kind but immovable. “One day off. Go back to your quarters, draw the curtains, and sleep.

The word “quarters” made my stomach clench. Four walls. A locked door. Alone with nothing but my thoughts and the nightmares that came with closing my eyes.

“I’d rather work,” I said, hating how small my voice sounded.

“I’m sure you would. Dr. Hawthorne began untying my apron himself when I didn’t move. “But part of learning to be a healer is knowing when you need healing. Today, Nina, you need rest.

There was no arguing with him. I nodded stiffly, surrendering the apron, and left the pharmacy with the distinct sensation of being cast adrift. Behind me, I heard him murmur to his assistant: “That child is holding on by a thread. Keep an eye on her, will you?”

The thread. Yes. That’s exactly what it felt like–a single fraying thread suspending me over an abyss.

Back in the dormitory, I stood in the center of my room and understood immediately why I’d fought so hard to stay at work. The silence was suffocating Without tasks to occupy my hands and mind, there was nothing to prevent the memories from flooding in.

I tried lying down. Lasted perhaps three minutes before my eyes snapped open, my mother’s screams echoing in the phantom space between sleeping and waking. The ceiling pressed down like a lid. The walls seemed to creep inward, shrinking the room to the size of a vage

I sat up, gasping, pressing my palms against my temples. This is ridiculous. It’s just a room You re sule. He doesn’t even know you’re here

But my body didn’t believe the rational words. My pulse hammered. My skin felt too tight. Every creak of the building became footsteps in the conde outside.

I couldn’t stay here. I would go mad if I stayed here.

Throwing on my cloak, I slipped out through the side entrance, ignoring the questioning look from a passing outerly. The forest called to me–not as a destination, but as an escape. Open space. Moving air. The opposite of confinement

Just walk, I told myself. Just keep moving. If you keep moving, the fear can’t catch up.

The upstream path along the creek was one I’d discovered during my first week at the outpost. Few people came this way–the treatment station and its surrounding facilities lay in the opposite direction–which made it perfect for someone who needed to disappear for a few hours.

I followed the water’s burbling course, focusing on the rhythm of my boots against earth, the whisper of wind through pine needles, the distant call of a hawk. Gradually, incrementally, the vise around my chest loosened. My hands stopped shaking. The white noise of panic receded to a manageable hum

This was what I needed. Not sleep–I couldn’t sleep, not with him so close–but movement. Distance. The illusion of control that came from choosing where my feet went.

Clang. Thud. Ciang.

-said it has to be finished before the full moon.”

The voice sliced through my spiral. One of the workers, wiping sweat from his brow as he surveyed their progress.

“Aye, Mr. Crowe was very specific, his companion replied. “No delays. This one’s important, apparently

Must be, if he’s overseeing the construction himself.

Aly. Crowe.

The name detonated in my skull like a thunder crack.

My hands found the rough bark of the tree beside me, the only thing keeping me upright as my knees threatened to buckle. The childhood terror I’d spent years learning to contain surged up my throat like bile.

He was building another cage. Here. Now. In this forest.

And the men said “this one–implying there would be an occupant. Someone specific.

Who?