I'm the Alpha's Mate

Chapter 18

With my eyes closed, I can still visualize her beautiful face, the face I grew up gazing at. My mother. I saw her standing right in front of me as if the past has suddenly changed and now she was in it. My years with Grandmother are replaced with figments of my imagination, ones including her and all the pretend things we did. The memory of my abandonment is forgotten and replaced with this new one: the sight of her calling my name, of her reaching out to me, and then of her towering figure as I lay helpless on the patchy grass.

The sight of her has given me a new hope, causing me to forget about the confusing events leading up to my slumber. If my mother is alright, then my father must be too. I have a chance at a real family again. Suddenly the bad Alpha is the least of my worries as my mind drifts to images of the three of us, living, growing, loving. They can meet Sebastian, Henry, Marina—they can join Sebastian's pack and stay with me forever. Never again will I feel unwanted. She called for me and led me from the attack. She cares for me. My mother loves me as a mother should. In this moment I am fulfilled, all my dreams are shifting to reality—all with a single glimpse of her face.

There is a softness beneath me, and covering me also. My head begins to wake as my eyes study the smears of light cast on them. There is a pounding in my skull, shaking me up and bringing my eyes to a quick flutter. My lashes act as wings, shading and exposing me to the harsh light beyond my lids until my eyes are tolerant of the gleam. My hand pulls out from my side so I can rub my knuckles and fingers against my face. As my conscience returns, I find myself searching the room, temporarily limited to the ceiling. My toes curl and flex, my legs stretch and bend, everything works but my head. My head throbs.

My hand reaches up to nurse the bump, but touch does not seem to smooth it, but make the pounding worse.

I am in a bed. Not my own, some unknown bed as my surroundings are frighteningly unfamiliar. In a panic, my body sits up swiftly which makes my head spin with a foggy dizziness. My stomach rises, and I have the urge to vomit. I feel as if my body and mind has endeared a never-ending battle, and my stomach is in protest of any movement.

After rolling onto my side, I scan my surroundings more thoroughly. Beside the bed is a nightstand, and across the room is a love seat, one with a calm pattern showing deep tones of red and pink. There is a short table in front of the love seat, holding nothing but a vase of dying flowers. The entire set up reminds me of a hotel room, unhomely and nerve-racking.

In a second attempt, I force my body up again, this time staying up. I brush my knotted hair from my face as I locate the door. My mother—I have to find her.

With a surge of determination, I swing my legs off the side of the bed and inch myself forward until my feet meet the cool, hard ground, making my legs wobble like a child learning to walk. My hands grip the bedding, my fists dig down into the mattress, and I steady myself. My eyes circle in on the door, ready to aim for the target and shoot. With a leap of faith, I begin my short, yet dizzy journey. I get the feeling people get when they wake up too quickly, a light head and upset stomach.

My hand grips the door handle, tightens, turns, stops, tugs, then nothing. I try again. Nothing. The door is locked, someone has locked me in a room. Did my mother do this? Why would she do this?

Leaning against the wall, I struggle to conjure a reasonable explanation. I remember things—only a few things, but things overall—and I remember coming to the base of the hill, spotting the strange man. He was not my father. He was of high rank, I could feel it. Then what? I cannot remember. My aching head is a clue. I scrunch my face as I think, coming up with two reasonable explanations. One, I fell and hit my head on a rock or other thing equally as rigid. Two, someone attacked me from behind, likely threw something at me. Then again, since when did I trust strangers?