Grace of a Wolf by Lenaleia

Chapter 69: Grace: Strange Nurse

As expected, I fall asleep quickly once Lyre’s gone, dreamless and deep.

A scraping sound startles me awake.

My eyelids struggle against the weight of interrupted sleep. A figure in scrubs moves around my bed, his features indistinct thanks to the dim lighting and my own disorientation. The nurse—a man, based off his broad shoulders and overall bulky physique—unplugs my IV from the wall outlet, methodically winding the cord to rest on the metal pole.

"What’s going on?" I ask, completely disoriented.

He doesn’t look at me, instead tapping at a tiny vial hanging near my fluids on the IV pole.

Then he turns, pushing a button to recline my bed until it’s flat. "Taking you downstairs for imaging." His voice is flat. Professional, but distant to the point of disinterest. He has a badge hanging from a lanyard around his neck, but I can’t make out what it says.

"Oh, okay..." Imaging? Nobody mentioned tests. But then again, hospitals operate on their own schedule, and doctors don’t always tell us what they’re going to do.

Cold air hits my legs as he straightens my blanket. My bed jerks forward as he disengages the brake with his foot, the mechanical click oddly loud in the quiet room.

I stare blankly at the ceiling as he wheels me toward the door, going backward. My hands rest limply on the blanket, still too heavy with sleep to move properly. The bed bumps slightly crossing the threshold.

A soft ping from the nightstand reaches my ears just as we round the corner—my phone. My hands twitch.

Oh, no. My phone. It’s still on the nightstand.

The realization filters slowly through my drowsiness. Should I ask to go back for it? It seems trivial to delay whatever test they need to run. Besides, imaging never takes long, does it? Twenty minutes, thirty at most? I’ll be back in my room before Lyre returns from her errands.

The nurse steers my bed into an elevator, an awkward affair involving an eight-point turn. It doesn’t seem to bother him, though, like he does this every day. I guess he does.

The doors slide closed, sealing us in the metal box, and I gain a sudden case of claustrophobia. New-onset.

ask, trying to chase away the

the illuminated

to push further. The elevator descends, my stomach lifting slightly with the motion, and I hope I

the doors open, the air feels different—cooler, for one. The lighting is harsher here, with no

crane my neck around. Utilitarian

because it doesn’t look like any hospital department I’ve seen

here." He makes a sharp turn, wheeling me toward a set of

of unease ripples through my chest. The fog in my brain is lifting,

through the double doors into yet another corridor, lined with doors. The temperature drops another few degrees. Goosebumps rise on my arms. I look like

stronger

pace doesn’t slow. "Almost

concrete. The shade of green didn’t seem particularly conducive to a healing atmosphere, but bare

we in

kind of looks like one. Only with no cars. Or parking

this? The basement? It’s obviously not the department

myself up on my elbows, fighting against the weakness still clinging to my limbs, and it’s a new level of stupid to think he’s going to respond

just

resistance is something, especially when

mattress. Not forcefully, but with unmistakable purpose. He’s not even trying to explain the

still. This

but the adrenaline running through my veins is no match

as the squeaking of my bed and the soft thud

still on my nightstand upstairs. No way to call Lyre. No way to call anyone.

they still come out thin and shaky. If I could just have the strength to roll off this bed and

first time, he looks down from above. His eyes are cold and