SEVENTY-EIGHT

They kept me at the hospital for three days, and they ran a number of tests on me but could not determine what was wrong. Cahir sent a message to the temple and they asked me to come see the high priestess.

When the doctors tried and tried some more without finding any solution to my sickness, they had to let me go. As at then, I’d already become a shadow of myself. Cahir had to hold me up when they discharged me. He’d have lifted me princess-style and carried me to the car if I hadn’t protested.

“I haven’t used my legs in so long.” I sighed when he put his hand around my waist as he tried to lift me. “I can at least walk to the car. I am not lame,” I mumbled.

“Are you sure you can walk?” My mate asked, clutching my waist.

I was the sick one but Cahir looked almost as bad as I did. His usually neatly trimmed beards were now all over the place, his hair was overgrown, his skin pallid and his frame noticeably smaller. He’d lost weight, lost his colour and discarded his grooming routine.