Mate (Bride, #2) (26)

“It’s totally okay.”

“Serena, I’m not . . .” He pauses to stroke his thick gray beard. “Like I said, cortisol surge disorder is a very common illness for Weres, and a leading cause of death.”

“But it’s very unusual for a Were as young as me to have CSD, I’m not responding to treatment, and my condition is deteriorating faster than you’ve ever seen before.” I smile to show him that yes, I’ve been listening.

When I first came to Dr. Henshaw, my biggest fear was that he would tell me that my odd hybrid biology was too much of a medical head-scratcher to give me a diagnosis. It never occurred to me that my disease might be easy to identify but untreatable.

To his credit, Dr. Henshaw did everything he could. He consulted several of his colleagues. He shared my anonymized labs with specialists.

He compared notes, asked for advice, and ordered additional tests on their behalf.

And today . . . Well. Today.

“Even if I am not able to do much for you, there are still accommodations to be made. You’ll need palliative care to treat your symptoms. We can and should involve your family and your closest friends, like Lowe and the Vampyre, and give them as much time with you as possible.”

“It’s okay,” I say. I feel— no, I am calm. Not that I’ve ever been one for dramatics, despite Misery’s accusations that I’m “severely unstable” for crying over videos of dogs reuniting with their owners. The ease with which I’m digesting the news that I’m about to become maggot feed is almost more disquieting than the knowledge itself. “I’d rather not tell anyone.”

His eyes widen. “Lowe is my Alpha. I feel uncomfortable, withholding information that— ”

“I’m sorry about your discomfort,” I interrupt. Gentle and firm. “But before I walked into this room for the first time, I made sure that you were not mandated to report your findings to Lowe, and you said— ”

“Only if they threatened the safety of the pack.” The eleven between his brows deepens, like he’s looking for a loophole. “Serena, nearly all people with CSD display aggressive episodes as their disease progresses. You’ve already experienced blackouts and sleepwalking. The other day, you said you clawed into the headboard of your bed overnight— ”

“I promise, I don’t need the recap.” I attempt an amused smile to soften my words. We were both here for the last two months, trying pills, injectables, even minor surgery. But I steadily got worse, and Dr.

Henshaw’s even-keeled We just haven’t found the right treatment yet became a frustrated You’re not responding as well as I’d hoped, then unspooled into frowns that I interpreted as What the fuck is wrong with your body?

Then, today, he said somberly, My colleagues and I are in agreement that your body cannot sustain this level of adrenal imbalance for much longer. It’s simply not compatible with life, both from a Were and a Human physiology standpoint. And the rate of your decline . . .

It’s okay. We tried. Didn’t work out. But that’s life: you win some, and you lose some— in which case, it becomes death.

“How long?” I ask him.

He doesn’t waffle. “Three to six months.”

Okay. That’s fine. That’s . . . I can work with that.

“I cannot thank you enough,” I say sincerely. Maybe, after I slog my way to greener pastures, this could be my legacy. Gratitude. Wouldn’t it be nice to be remembered as the hybrid who didn’t ask to see the manager when things didn’t go her way? “You’ve done so much for me. I would write you a positive online review, but I’m not sure whether Attempted to fix a hybrid would get you killed, so.”

“Serena. I strongly advise sharing what is happening with Lowe. If nothing else, because you could easily hurt someone during an episode. You live with Ana, too, who— ”

“I would never— ” I stop and force myself not to act defensively, because he’s not wrong. If I shredded a piece of wood in my sleep without realizing it, what would stop me from shredding . . . “You’re correct.” I go on my tiptoes to grab my jacket. “The pack is at risk with me around. But there are ways to deal with it.”

“Such as?”

“I could ask for some isolation. Misery knows that I’ve been overwhelmed.”

“The Vampyre won’t like it.”

“She’s used to stuff not going her way. She’s a bitter pill swallower of great skill and experience.”

“Did she not agree to wed Lowe to find you?” Dr. Henshaw tilts his head. “And you plan to leave her with a lie?”

“If I think it’d be best for her? Yes.” I’ve expended a lot of effort in the past few weeks to hide my condition from the people I live with. I have no intention to stop now. “Nice guilt trip, though.”

“It was worth a try.”

I grin at him, wondering when it will sink in that I’m about to die. The atoms that make me will be eaten by worms and turn into fungi and undergo redistribution within the universe. Why do I feel so little? “My medical records through the years, the ones I gave you. You still have them?”

He nods.

“After I . . . Feel free to make copies and share them with whoever you want— they’ll come in handy as Ana grows up and— ” My voice cracks.