The physician's diagnosis was mildly disturbing.
First, the redhead was pregnant. Secondly, she was mentally unstable.
She had awoken for the first time after treatment, screaming, unable to be held down as she tried to tear off her own skin. After calming, she had asked Seth, my Beta, if she was being held prisoner. And when he said no, she said nothing else, and hasn't spoken a word since then.
Two weeks of closely monitoring her drove the conclusion. There is something crucial missing in her teal eyes.
"You should send word," Seth says as we look over my study window, watching her kneel in the patch of grass, pulling out weeds from the garden with her bare hands. "You should send word to the king that you have her."
Don't let him find us.
"Which king?" I muse.
