After eleven days of strict bed rest, I was ready to claw my way through the walls. I'd tried everything to keep myself occupied—drawing (terrible), knitting (worse), reading (finished three books in two days), and watching every streaming show recommended to me. Nothing helped. The ceiling had become my nemesis, its blank surface mocking me hour after endless hour.
"I'm losing my mind," I muttered to myself, shifting uncomfortably against my pillows for the thousandth time that morning.
The only escape I had was in my dreams, where I could run free as my wolf through endless forests, sometimes with a small silver pup—my dream version of Rhys—bounding alongside me. But dreams ended, and reality was this prison of Egyptian cotton sheets and medical monitoring equipment.
