Prologue
Matilda
Iinhaledeeply,relishingthe peace in the tiny supply closet and taking a moment to savour my settled aura before I need to leave the sanctuary.
It’s the worst possible place for me to be, and yet when a fellow nurse asked desperately for someone to fill her shift, I volunteered. My empathy is my greatest strength and a curse. I should’ve said no.
There is only one hour left of this shift and I’m so overwhelmed I can barely think straight. The woman whose child was in a car accident is distraught. The junkie in severe withdrawal is desperate. The flighty new nurse is nervous. And, thanks to my broken aura, I experience all those emotions too. I’m a raw nerve. A broken antenna who picks up the emotional wavelength of any Alpha or Omega in my proximity. Betas are a gentle hum in the background, but a crowd of them can become overwhelming.
I wipe my sweaty palms hastily on my thighs. The blue scrubs feel too tight on my skin and I fight the urge to tear them off my body.
All I have to do is get through this shift. Survive one more hour. Then I can leave, retreat to my nest, and burrow deep into its comforting embrace until I feel like myself again. Just me and only me.
This job used to come so easily to me. I had unwavering faith in my instincts as a healthcare provider, able to sense what my patients needed and provide the right care without hesitation. Now, I’m crippled by doubt every time I step into the hospital. Every time I question my skills, my confidence is eroded just that bit more. I miss being able to trust myself, but it seems so far out of reach.
I shake out my limbs and roll my shoulders, feeling like I’m preparing for battle rather than doing the job I used to love. Lifting my chin, I puff out one last steadying breath and push through the door.
With measured steps, I enter the hallway bathed in the harsh, clinical glow of fluorescent lights. The familiar squeak of my well-worn shoes reverberates on the linoleum floor, announcing my return to the epicentre of pandemonium – the nurses’ station. Positioned amidst the swirling whirlwind of activity, it stands as a steadfast anchor amid chaos.
The familiar antiseptic smell stings my nostrils, thankfully drowning out the choking cloud of scents. I resume updating a patient chart, doing my best to ignore my mounting sense of unease. There is a powerful aura nearby, and it’s prickling at my awareness uncomfortably.
“Nurse Weber, with me,” a junior doctor says, as he snaps his fingers in my direction.
“No respect,” Nurse Janice mutters under her breath as we share an exasperated look. “Good luck with Doctor Creep, Matilda.”
I trail Doctor Francis Neep toward a patient treatment room, where an Alpha police officer stands watch. His uniform shirt pocket is torn, and he’s gingerly dabbing the blood from a split lip. I glance away, trying my best not to get sucked into his aura as it crackles with frustration.
Neep sweeps back the blue privacy curtain with unnecessary flourish to reveal an Alpha tightly bound to the bed. Thick padded cuffs strain as he snarls and thrashes in vehement rage, his face flushed with fury.
Even though I’ve treated three other cases of advanced aura sickness in this shift alone, my pulse still quickens. As an Omega, I know to stay alert around Alpha patients. Not only are they powerful, fast, and territorial; but they have an Alpha command Omegas are especially affected by. If he catches me off-guard and orders me to release his restraints, I might actually do it.
Like any apex predator, Alphas loathe being vulnerable. With their enhanced healing powers, if an Alpha is in the hospital, it means they’re really hurt ... and at their most deadly.
“Ricardo Torrence, designation Alpha, age forty-two, admitted for lacerations to hands and forearms,” Doctor Neep recites, reading from the chart without looking up at the patient. “Aura crazed bugger lost his cool when his AFL team lost a match.”
My sympathetic heart aches for the man. It’s clear his injuries are simply a symptom of the true problem. His aura sickness has him in a choke-hold.
I shuffle closer to the Alpha, letting my aura probe around him, seeking any sign of his original sane self beneath the roiling chaos. There’s nothing. The man is gone. He’s lost his true self to the worst facets of his personality – in this case, it’s obviously his anger.
I bite my lip to keep myself grounded.
Neep flips through the patient’s history, sighing obnoxiously. “If only he’d bothered to find a mate. We all could have avoided this mess he’s made.”
Doctor Francis Neep is a quintessential Beta male with an inferiority complex. He’ll never know the struggle of finding a mate. Finding someone to bond with isn’t the problem. There are apps and agencies to help with that, and we’re all desperate to avoid losing ourselves to our inner demons. It’s finding the right someone. Aura sickness can only be avoided when the mating pair are compatible. Scientists have been trying to work out what exactly makes up “compatibility” without results. It all comes down to instinct and luck. The holy grail is a scent match. Someone you know is your mate from a single whiff of their unique scent. It’s rare.
I want to correct the pompous doctor’s incorrect assumption. To explain that the Alpha losing his sense of self before our very eyes probably tried very hard to find his mate. I say nothing, though. What’s the point?
Neep sees Alphas and Omegas as subclass citizens who are a pain to treat and a drain on society. When I’m standing next to him, all I feel is his disdain and disgust for others. I’ll never understand why a man like Neep became a doctor. He doesn’t care about the patients and, as far as I’m concerned, it’s the primary requirement for the job.
I try my best to stay away from him during my shifts, but there is only so much distance I can maintain while still working with the man.
I frown down at the writhing Alpha and watch as the cuffs dig into his weeping deep cuts. It must be causing him unimaginable pain. “Why is he restrained where his injuries are?”
Neep barely looks up from the chart.
“The patient is restrained because of his inability to control himself and his aggression–”
Splat.
