Owned By The Possessive Alpha, Bounded To My Mate novel Chapter 97

Chapter 97

Chapter 97

Chapter 97

DENISE

18

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Andrea arrived the way Andrea arrived at things-in full motion, the door opening before I’d heard her in the corridor, energy preceding her the way weather preceded storms.

“You’re awake,” she said, like this was something she’d been personally invested in.

“I’ve been awake for hours,” I said.

“You look terrible.” She came to the side of the bed and looked at me with the specific assessment of someone who loved you and was not going to pretend otherwise. “You look alive and terrible, which is better than the alternative, but I want to be clear about the terrible part.”

“Thank you.”

“I saw the news this morning.” She set her bag down on the chair-the large one she used for work, camera equipment visible at the top. “The St. Mira’s fire. Your name wasn’t in the report but Mrs. Adeyemi’s was and I know you and I know that building and I-” She stopped. Pressed her lips together briefly. “I came straight here.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“I was three streets away when I heard.” She pulled the chair around to the side of the bed. “I was shooting for Maison Vidal-morning session, the owner had some private client event early.” She sat down and looked at me properly and the energy shifted into something quieter, the underneath version of Andrea that appeared when the activity had served its purpose. “Are you actually alright?”

“Smoke inhalation,” I said. “Chemical exposure. They’ll discharge me today if the morning assessment is clear.”

“Chemical exposure,” she repeated.

“Someone prepared the building,” I said. “It wasn’t an accident.”

The quiet in the room changed quality.

Andrea looked at me. I watched her process this-the rapid, thorough processing she did when information arrived that required her to update her understanding of a situation significantly.

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15:41 Fri, Sep 18

Chapter 97

“Someone targeted St. Mira’s,” she said.

“The investigation is ongoing.”

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She looked at me for a long moment. Then she reached into her bag. “I was shooting when I heard the news. I kept the camera running-habit, professional reflex, you shoot until you stop.” She pulled out the camera, a compact professional model she used for candid work. “I came through the hospital corridors on the way here. I had the camera down but the record light was on.”

She turned it toward me.

The screen showed a clip. The timestamp placed it at forty minutes ago.

“I was coming through the east wing,” she said. “Pediatric corridor. I caught something I don’t know who these people are but the woman is the one from this morning. The Maison Vidal client. Old money, very private, she was lovely with the staff.” She pressed play. “She’s apparently in the city quietly with her son.”

I watched the clip.

The corridor of the pediatric ward-the particular pale morning light of it, the institutional quality. A woman in a doorway, cap on, mask down. Her face visible but at an angle.

A man’s back.

Dark hair, well-cut jacket, the specific breadth of shoulders I had been looking at across kitchen counters and conference tables and venue floors for weeks.

From the bed, a small voice.

*Papa.*

The arms coming up.

The man moving toward the child before the movement had been decided-the specific quality of a body going toward something before the mind had finished the instruction.

The clip ended.

I sat in the hospital bed and breathed carefully around my ribs and said nothing for a

moment.

Andrea was watching my face.

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15.41 50.Sep 18

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I handed the camera Back

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