Iris
“It’s been too long,” my father whispers. “They said the surgery would only take three hours. It’s been almost four.”
“That doesn’t mean anything bad,” I reply. “Surgeries often run longer than expected.”
“Or it means there were complications.”
I shoot my brother a withering glare. “Not helping.”
My father drags a hand down his face, and I’m startled to see tears glistening in his eyes.
“I can’t lose her,” he mutters as he flops down on the hospital sofa beside me. “I don’t know what I would do without her.”
The thought of losing my mate—forever, with no possibility of getting back together, knowing that they would never walk the earth again—makes my heart break for my father. I reach out and take his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “She’ll pull through,”
