My inner omega—the designation I’ve buried under suppressants, both traditional and contemporary—stirs with interest for the first time in years.
Alpha. Undeniably, powerfully alpha.
His scent hits me next—pine needles after rain, mountain air, sharp as a wild storm. My medication regimen should block my ability to detect scents this clearly. The fact that I can only means one thing—he is an exceptionally compatible alpha.
Maybe even a scent match?
Except no, scent matches don’t actually exist. No matter what lovesick omegas might declare to the contrary. I’m probably just smelling the antibacterial gel in pump dispensers on every wall of the clinic.
He hasn’t noticed me yet, still glaring at a supply manifest. The white coat he wears stretches across shoulders that seem built for carrying burdens, his presence filling the small office space like a storm cloud. My gaze lingers on the bright orange hoodie he wears under the coat, completely incongruous to the setting but somehow doing nothing to distract from his aura of command.
I force my breathing to remain steady, my posture neutral. I’ve managed four years of medical school surrounded by alphas without giving myself away. I can handle one more, no matter how the instincts that shouldn’t even exist might be screaming at me.
This is Dr. Noah Klinkhart. He has to be.
I edge toward the end of the desk, fighting the urge to get up and run away from what my hindbrain screams is an agitated alpha male. Maybe it’s best if I wait to introduce myself. Three more steps and I can slip into the hallway. Two steps. One?—
My hip catches the edge of the desk, sending a stack of plastic irrigation trays cascading to the floor with a spectacular crash. The trays bounce and skitter across the linoleum like oversized poker chips, the noise amplified in the small space.
Perfect.
The alpha’s head snaps up, those piercing blue eyes locking onto me with laser focus. I freeze, caught in his gaze like a specimen pinned to a slide.
“Who are you?” His voice drops an octave, the question more demand than inquiry. He stands completely still, assessing me with clinical precision.
I straighten my spine, summoning every ounce of professional confidence I’ve cultivated. “Dr. Holly Chang.” I extend my hand automatically, then immediately regret it. Close contact means scent exposure. The last thing I need is the smell of him lingering on my skin. Shoving both hands in the pockets of my lab coat, I rock back on my heels. “Your new resident.”
I cringe at my choice of phrasing.I’m nothisanything.
His eyes narrow fractionally. “No one informed me a resident was starting today.”
“Dr. Mercer should have mentioned?—“
“Mercer barely manages his own schedule, let alone mine.” Dr. Klinkhart crosses his arms over his chest, glaring downat me. “But I suppose that means, you’ve now become my problem.”
Unease and irritation battle for dominance as I try to decide how to respond. “I confirmed my start date over a month ago, but I apologize for any inconvenience?—”
“What’s your specialty interest?” He cuts me off again, his gaze sweeping over me in detached assessment.
“Emergency medicine with a focus on wilderness applications.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. “I graduated top of my class?—“
“Top of the class means nothing on the mountain.” He steps closer, and I resist the urge to back away. “Textbook medicine falls apart when you’re treating hypothermia in a blizzard with limited supplies or trying to stabilize a trauma patient that can’t be transported for hours because of weather conditions.”
The dismissal stings. I’ve worked too hard to be dismissed by some small-town alpha, no matter how intimidating.
“I spent a month volunteering at a clinic in rural China with no running water and intermittent electricity as an undergrad.” I meet his gaze directly, challenging his assumption. “I’ve treated snake bites with hand-mixed antivenom and set bones without X-rays. I’m more than just my textbooks, I assure you, Dr. Klinkhart.”
Something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe even the barest hint of approval—before his expression hardens again.
Noah’s jaw tightens. “We treat injuries you almost never see in the city here, Dr. Chang. Frostbite that turns fingers black. Animal attacks that leave people with their insides trying to become outsides. Skiing accidents where bodies hit trees at sixty miles per hour.”
“I’m up for the challenge,” I reply, proud that my voice stays even.
His voice drops lower, each word precise as a scalpel. “This clinic is the closest medical facility to the base camp of Heat Mountain. When climbers fall, they don’t gently tumble. They drop hundreds of feet.”
He steps closer, towering over me, his scent overwhelming my senses despite my herbs. My inner omega wants to submit, to appease the clearly agitated alpha, but I force myself to stand my ground.
“Understood—”
