Greta was puking. Again.
Sam was pacing the stone floor in his room. It was entirely enclosed apart from the small, barred window near the top of the door. He kept running his hands through his hair helplessly. His mate was nauseous and miserable.
How had this happened? He groaned. He should have kept her safe from this somehow. Now he couldn't get to her. He couldn't help her. All he could do was listen helplessly as his mate got sick on the floor of her room. He growled to himself.
"Stop, Sam. Please," she rasped. "I am fine. It's just the baby. Or babies."
"It is not. This is too much," the panic was starting to gain an edge in his voice. "This is not right." He groaned again. What could he do?
Greta slumped on the floor of her cell and squinted her eyes closed, trying to will herself to be well. Perhaps she could keep herself from getting sick if she concentrated hard enough. But ever since she drank that water that was offered to her, she couldn't stop puking.
