The Alpha's Exiled Mate Chapter 246

Freya's POV

I was falling through darkness, silver chains wrapping around me like snakes, tightening with every breath. Voices echoed distantly—medical terms, urgent commands, beeping machines. Then silence, heavy and absolute.

The darkness shifted, forming into a small cabin—the one on Derek's boat. But this time, I wasn't chained. Kaelin stood before me, her face twisted into a cruel smile.

"You thought he would choose you?" she mocked, circling me like a predator. "A filthy exile? You're nothing, Freya. Nothing."

I tried to speak, but no sound came. Kaelin laughed, the sound echoing unnaturally.

"Look at you," she continued, gesturing dismissively. "Without these hands, what are you?"

She stomped down hard on my right hand, and pain exploded up my arm. I screamed silently as bones cracked beneath her heel.

"Nothing," she whispered, leaning close. "You're nothing without these hands. Nothing to him. Nothing to anyone."

I jerked awake with a gasp, heart pounding wildly. For a moment, I couldn't orient myself—white walls, beeping machines, the antiseptic smell of the medical center. My right hand throbbed with pain, safely immobilized in its brace.

"Easy, easy," a familiar voice soothed. "You're safe, Freya."

I turned to see Emma sitting beside my bed, her face lined with worry. She reached out, gently squeezing my left hand.

"How long...?" My voice was hoarse, my throat dry.

"About six hours," Emma replied, offering me a cup of water with a straw. "You gave us quite a scare."

I sipped the water gratefully, the cool liquid soothing my parched throat. As my mind cleared, memories of the kidnapping, the rescue, and the doctor's grim prognosis about my hand came flooding back.

"My hand," I whispered, looking down at the immobilized limb. "Did they say anything more about...?"

Emma's expression softened with sympathy. "Miles is cautiously optimistic," she said. "The silver purging treatment worked well, and they caught the toxicity before it could cause further nerve damage."

Relief washed over me, though I knew "cautiously optimistic" was far from a guarantee. Still, it was better than I'd feared.

The door opened, and Martha rushed in, her face brightening when she saw me awake. "Freya! Thank the moon you're alright."

She hurried to my bedside, taking my left hand in both of hers. Her eyes were red-rimmed, as though she'd been crying.

"I was so worried," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "When I heard about the silver exposure..."

"I'm okay," I assured her, though we both knew it wasn't entirely true. "Just tired."

Martha nodded, clearly not fooled but willing to play along for now. "The doctors say you need rest," she said. "No excitement, no stress."

Emma stood, gathering her purse. "I should go. My lunch break ended an hour ago, and I've already pushed Emma White's legendary work ethic to its limits." She squeezed my hand one last time. "I'll come by after work, okay?"

After Emma left, Martha settled into the chair beside my bed. There was something in her expression—a hesitancy, a careful consideration—that made me uneasy.

"What is it?" I asked. "What aren't you telling me?"

Martha sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly. "Alpha Thorne has been asking questions," she admitted. "About the Brooks family, about your time in prison, about the connection between your families."

A chill ran down my spine. "What did you tell him?"

"The truth," she said simply. "Or at least, the parts of it I know. The rest..." She looked at me meaningfully. "The rest will have to come from you, when you're ready."

I looked away, my gaze falling on my bandaged hand. The truth was a luxury I wasn't sure I could afford—not until I knew where Ethan was, not until I understood what game Kaelin was playing.

"Did the doctors say anything else?" I asked, changing the subject. "About my hand, I mean."

Martha's expression told me she recognized the deflection but was allowing it. "They're cautiously hopeful," she said. "But they didn't want to make any promises to me. They said they'd discuss it with you when you're stronger."

I nodded, a lump forming in my throat. I couldn't bring myself to ask the question that really mattered: Would I ever be able to design again? Would I ever regain the fine motor control needed for the intricate work that had become my lifeline?

Martha seemed to read my thoughts. "Whatever happens," she said gently, "we'll figure it out together. You're not alone anymore, Freya."

Her words were meant to comfort, but they only highlighted the precariousness of my situation. If I couldn't design, what purpose did I serve? What value did I have to anyone, let alone to Thorne?

I closed my eyes, suddenly exhausted. "I think I need to rest now," I murmured.

Martha patted my good hand. "Of course, dear. I'll be right here when you wake up."

As I drifted back toward sleep, I strained my ears, picking up the low murmur of voices outside my door. One of them was unmistakably Thorne's—deep, authoritative, concerned. I couldn't make out the words, but the tone was clear: He was issuing orders, making arrangements, taking control.

The doctor's response was deferential but firm—something about "patient needs" and "recovery time." Then silence, followed by receding footsteps.

I opened my eyes a crack, seeing Martha now standing by the window, her back to me. Beyond her, through the partially open door, I caught a glimpse of Thorne's broad shoulders as he walked away, his posture rigid with what looked like barely contained anger.

Something had changed. The careful distance he had maintained, the cold judgment in his eyes whenever he looked at me—it was gone, replaced by something else.