CHAPTER 20: HEARING VOICES

Eleanor’s POV

The first thing I was aware of was a dull, throbbing ache in my temples. Then the sterile, bleach smell of a hospital. I opened my eyes to the familiar, depressing off-white ceiling of a wardroom. Again.

The accident played on a loop behind my eyes. It felt like I was a magnet for disaster. But beneath the physical pain and the shaken nerves, something else nagged at me. A conversation, hazy and dreamlike, that I’d heard as I was slipping away.

"...is Eleanor a werewolf?"

The words echoed in my head, clear and utterly insane. Why did it feel so real? It had to be the concussion, right? My mind conjuring up wild stories to make sense of the trauma.

The door creaked open, and Mira slipped in, followed by Roxy. Mira’s face was a mask of concern, her eyes scanning me from head to toe.

"Eleanor! You’re awake. How are you feeling?" she asked, her voice soft and worried.

The automatic response was on my lips before I even thought about it. "I’m fine." It was a lie, but a necessary one. I didn’t want to be a burden, to make them worry more than they already were. "How... how are you both feeling?" I asked, turning the focus away from myself.

Roxy gave a casual shrug, leaning against the wall. "We’re good."

But they couldn’t be. The question burned in my throat, fueled by the bizarre memory. I had to ask, even if it sounded crazy. "Did... did something else happen? During the accident, I mean?" I kept my voice small, tentative.

Mira’s brow furrowed. "Something like what?"

I was suddenly confused. Was I remembering it wrong? Maybe I’d heard double. "Your injuries," I pressed, my overthinking brain latching onto a more logical, polite avenue. "Surely I’m not the only one who got hurt. You both took a bigger hit than I did. You should be in your own wards, too." It made sense. It was the reasonable, expected thing.

"We were," Roxy said smoothly, not missing a beat. "Hours ago. You’ve been out for a while. We’ve been treated and were just waiting for you to wake up."

"Oh," I said softly, my argument deflated. Of course. That made perfect sense. It was logical. I was being silly, letting the concussion mess with my head.

Mira leaned closer, her gaze gentle but probing. "Is there something on your mind, Elle? You can tell us."

"No," I said too quickly, offering a weak smile. "No, it’s nothing. Just... a weird dream, I think." I looked away, focusing on a loose thread on the hospital blanket.

Why would I even entertain such a ridiculous thought? Werewolves? I’d heard the rumors, seen the scary headlines and the paranoid online forums claiming supernatural creatures were real—dangerous, bloodthirsty monsters who lived to kill. Mira was the absolute opposite of that. She was my best friend, my anchor. She was fiercely protective, yes, but she was all warmth and loyalty.

Roxy? Well, I wasn’t sure about Roxy. She was sharp and abrasive and clearly knew how to fight. But a werewolf? The idea was absurd. If Mira were a werewolf, I would know. Wouldn’t I?

I was just settling into the comforting, familiar rhythm of doubting myself when another voice cut through my thoughts. It was soft, feminine, and utterly alien.

You won’t know.

I flinched, my head snapping up. That wasn’t my internal monologue. That wasn’t my voice at all. My eyes darted to Mira and Roxy, but their expressions hadn’t changed. They hadn’t heard it.

"Did... did you guys hear that?" I asked.

Mira’s face immediately tightened with fresh concern. "Hear what, sweetie? Maybe you need more rest."

I shook my head, a sudden, intense need to be anywhere but here overwhelming me. The white walls, the smell of antiseptic—it was all closing in on me, reminding me of my own fragility. "No. No more rest. I want to leave. I hate it here."

Mira didn’t argue. "Okay. Okay, let’s get you home."

Some hours later, after Mira had somehow strong-armed us all into changing into fresh clothes—a process that involved a truly impressive amount of complaining from Roxy, who declared the soft, normal-looking clothes "a fate worse than death"—we were pulling up in front of my apartment building. Mira’s car, thankfully, was still in one piece, a small miracle in itself.

Mira put the car in park and turned to me. "Take the week off, Elle. Seriously."

The offer was tempting. The thought of facing the office, of facing Dickson, made my stomach clench. But the thought of giving him more ammunition was worse. "No, it’s... it’s okay. Really. I’ll be fine."

I could already picture his smug face, the way he’d use any absence against me, painting me as unreliable, using it as another reason to force me out. I couldn’t give him the satisfaction. "Thank you, though."

I turned to Roxy, who was slouched in the back seat, looking profoundly bored. "I’m surprised you’re still... hanging out with us," I said, a little awkwardly.

Roxy and Mira shared a quick, unreadable look. Roxy then fixed her dark eyes on me. "Yeah, well. Since I apparently agreed to work for Vexxon, you’re gonna be seeing a lot more of me. Consider me your new... shadow." She said the last word with a twist of irony.

"Oh," I said, the pieces clicking into a logical place. Of course. It was about business. That made perfect sense. "I understand."

I stepped out of the car, assuring Mira I could make it to my room on my own. The last thing I needed was for them to see the inevitable chaos of my apartment. She reluctantly agreed, but I felt the heat of her headlights on my back until I pushed through the main doors of my building.

The walk to my apartment felt longer than usual. By the time I slid my key into the lock, my nerves were stretched taut.

The door swung open to the familiar sight of my dim living room. But the second I crossed the threshold, a cold prickle ran up my spine. The air felt... different.

You aren’t alone.

The voice. It was back, a soft, chilling whisper in the confines of my own mind. Panic, sharp and immediate, seized me. My eyes scanned the room, landing on a heavy, decorative vase on the console table. It would have to do. Heart hammering, I hefted it, holding it like a clumsy club.

A smell hit me then, cutting through the fear. Something... cooking? Garlic and onions. And a sound. A low, off-key humming.

Creeping toward the kitchen, the source of the noise came into view. The back of a man, standing at my stove, wearing my apron, headphones clamped over his ears. He was stirring a pot, his terrible singing voice a familiar, grating sound that could raise the dead.

It was Dickson.

My grip on the vase tightened. What was he doing here? How did he get in?

I nudged the edge of the vase against his back. He jumped, whirling around. When he saw me, a wide, practiced smile spread across his face. He pulled the headphones down around his neck.

"Eleanor! You’re finally back. I was just whipping us up something to eat. You look like you’ve had a day. And don’t scare me like that again. You are lucky I am in a good mood."

I stared at him, my mind struggling to process his casual invasion. "How did you get in here?"

He chuckled, as if I’d told a mildly amusing joke. "I have a key, silly. Why wouldn’t I have a spare key to my girlfriend’s place?"

I had completely forgotten I’d given him a key, back when things were different, back when I was trying so hard to make us work. A wave of nausea washed over me. And did he say girlfriend?

He turned off the gas and took a step toward me, his smile softening into what he probably thought was a charming look. "I’ve missed you, you know."

Is this man for real?

"We aren’t dating anymore, Dickson," I said, my voice firmer than I felt. "That means you can’t just... let yourself into my apartment whenever you feel like it."

His smile widened, condescending and utterly sure of himself. "I can, because you won’t do anything about it," he said, his tone dripping with a familiarity that made my skin crawl. "You never do. Because deep down, you still love me."

The arrogance was staggering. "If you came here to force me to sign that contract, the answer is still no," I said, tightening my grip on the vase. It was the only solid thing in a world that was tilting dangerously.

"That’s not why I’m here," he said, waving a dismissive hand as if swatting away a gnat. "Although, I’m not stressed about it. I know you’re going to sign it eventually." The certainty in his voice sent a fresh chill through me. What did that mean? What game was he playing?

"So what did you come here for, then?" I asked, my voice trembling despite my best efforts to keep it steady.

His smile turned into something else then—a performative, rehearsed tenderness that didn’t reach his eyes. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, velvet box. With a flick of his thumb, he opened it.

Inside, a diamond solitaire glittered under my kitchen lights.

My mind went completely, utterly blank. The vase felt suddenly heavy and useless in my hands.

"Let’s do what you’ve always wanted, Eleanor," he said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate pitch that felt like a violation. "Let’s get married."

Eleanor, is this fucker serious?