The Tracker's Mate: Sunderverse (Mate Tracker Book 1) by Ingrid Seymour

Author:Ingrid Seymour [Seymour, Ingrid]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: werewolf, werewolves, young adult, new adult, urban fantasy
Publisher: PenDreams
Published: 2021-01-20T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 23

When I broke out of the trance, utter darkness still surrounded me. For a panicked moment, I feared I’d gotten trapped in that limbo, unable to escape, but it was just the blindness. I sat up with a jerk, my shaking hands flat on the bed in an effort to feel grounded. My breaths came in fast, but I couldn’t hear them. The world was silent, dark, and void of all smells.

Where am I? Where am I?! The question was irrational, but the panic was real.

I felt three taps on top of my hand, then the bed dipped. Relieved, I clenched Rosalina’s hand and pressed it to my chest. My heart pounded like the drums of the salsa music she liked to dance to. Sensing my distress, she moved closer and wrapped me in a tight hug, hands smoothing my hair, warm breath brushing my ear in words of comfort that I couldn’t hear.

“I couldn’t find him,” I sobbed, fighting the knot in my throat, my exhausted body collapsing against her.

She pulled away, took my hand, and traced several circles in my palm.

The letter “O”.

She was trying to tell me it was okay. We had come up with several hand gestures to help us communicate. Nothing fancy, but we could understand each other. She pressed a cool glass to my hand and wrapped my fingers around it. I drank the water greedily until I finished it.

After she took the glass away, I held both palms up in question. She tapped my left hand five times. I collapsed back on the bed. Five minutes, I’d been under for five minutes, which meant it would take five hours to regain my senses. This was the longest I’d ever been under and for nothing.

I felt Rosalina’s fingers slide down my chest bone. Sign language for “Hungry?”

I shook my head.

Her fingertips alighted on my forehead next, then slid downward gently, gathering at my chin. Sleep.

“I can’t. I’m too restless. My heart is dancing to some of your salsa music.” She had Cuban roots and grew up speaking Spanish. Odd for someone raised in The Hill with all the Italians around, but her family remained faithful to their origin, which was so cool.

She repeated the sign. Sleep.

I sighed. “I’ll try.”

Rosalina signed on my hand that she was leaving. The bed shifted as she stood, and I imagined her walking out of the room and shutting the door behind her.

I knew that time would pass faster if I just slept, but I didn’t think I would be able to—even despite my deep fatigue. I closed my eyes, and even here, on the bed, my mind stirred with the memory of that sweet smell and the unrelenting hum of an engine, and since darkness still surrounded me, I felt as if I were still in the trance.

You’re not. You’re not. You’re free.

I touched the bed, my pillow, my face to convince myself. I tossed and turned, willing sleep to come.

Only five hours. You can sleep for five hours.

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