CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: OF WARNINGS, PULSE MONITORS, AND THE BOY WHO WOULDN'T LET GO
KD's POV
Dela Vega Medical Clinic
Twelve hours.
That's how long she's been unconscious.
Twelve hours since the chandelier shattered.
Since blood slicked the tiles like glass.
Since her knees buckled and she collapsed—not from injury, but from something deeper.
She looked at me and Xythe, both bleeding—and she just shut down.
Now? She's here. Monitors blink beside her. Pale beneath white sheets, she looks too still.
I'm here. Cleared to walk. Still haven't moved from this chair.
She hasn't stirred. Not once.
Her hazel-green eyes—the ones that always held a glint of calculation, of silent fire—are closed. Her breath is steady, shallow. Hands still. But she hasn't woken up.
And the Elarin Band around my right middle finger keeps pulsing. Quiet, but alive. And every five minutes, it flares against my skin like a ghost heartbeat.
The first time, it was soft. Like the memory of a touch. Then three short bursts—out of sync. Uneven. Her mind trying to reach. And failing. Then stillness again. Not silence. Just... lost.
And right now? It's flickering. Like she's stuck in a loop. Not gone. Not broken. But lost inside something too deep to surface from.
And the Band knows it. It vibrates low, like a warning whisper I can't stop hearing.
A pause.
The pulse flares bright—one sharp, electric jolt up my arm.
And I know. She's dreaming again. Remembering. Spiraling.
I clench my hand around hers. The Band presses back—almost like it's fighting me. Like it's saying: Don't pull away.
So I don't. I keep my hand on hers. Keep the contact. Even when her pulse goes cold. Even when my own starts racing.
Because this thread? This Band? It isn't just tech. It's the line I refuse to let break. And she's on the other end—quiet, but still there.
Still holding on.
Even if she doesn't know it yet.
The door clicks open. I don't look. I don't need to. The footsteps are light. Controlled. Familiar.
Mom steps inside. Moves past me in silence. Straight to Riyee's bedside.
She checks the monitor, then lifts Riyee's wrist and counts the pulse herself. Her fingers are steady. Always have been.
"She's stable," she says, voice low. "Vitals are consistent. BP's within range. Pupils reacted earlier."
I nod once. "But she's still not awake."
"She isn't." Mom adjusts the IV drip. Brushes a stray lock of hair from Riyee's cheek.
Silence stretches. The soft tick of machines. White light buzzing overhead.
"Why hasn't she woken up?" My voice is quiet. Measured. But it scratches.
Mom exhales, sits beside me. Her coat is creased, her hair slightly undone. But her expression doesn't waver.
"She's not unconscious from trauma to the head," she says. "There's no cranial swelling. No hemorrhage. Nothing physically wrong."
I narrow my eyes. "Then what is it?"
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OPERATION WINTERSPINE (Strings Between Us Book 2)
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