But that doesn’t stop the voice from whispering in my ear.
You have them for now. What happens later?
TWENTY-NINE
HOLLY
I’m practicallydead on my feet by the time I pull into Kai’s driveway after a long week at the clinic, looking forward to my first night off. Two more children came in with symptoms matching the Frost twins, and Dr. Mercer dismissed every single case as a viral syndrome without ordering any of the tests I recommended. My frustration sits like a rock in my stomach, heavy and immovable.
At least I have the house to myself tonight. Noah texted that he’s covering the late shift at the clinic, and Grayson is working inventory at the general store until closing. An evening alone sounds perfect—just me, a hot shower, and maybe a glass of wine before I collapse into bed.
I fumble with my keys at the front door, nearly dropping them twice before I get inside. The house is quiet and dark except for a light spilling from the kitchen. I drop my medical bag by the door and kick off my shoes, rolling my shoulders to release the tension built up from hunching over charts all day.
A loud crash from the kitchen makes me jump.
“Shit! Fuck! Goddammit!”
Kai’s voice, I realize as he continues to curse with increasing creativity. I rush toward the kitchen, my exhaustion forgotten.
“Kai? You okay?”
I round the corner to find him standing at the counter, cradling his left hand. Blood drips onto the cutting board beside a half-chopped onion and a wicked-looking chef’s knife.
“Oh hey, Hollipop.” He grins at me, but it’s strained around the edges. “Just a little kitchen mishap. Nothing to worry about.”
Blood continues to drip steadily from between his fingers. I immediately shift into medical mode, crossing to his side.
“Let me see.”
“It’s fine, really. I was making dinner and?—“
“Kai.” I use my no-nonsense doctor voice. “Show me your hand.”
He sighs dramatically but extends his hand. I gently unwrap his fingers from around the wound—a deep laceration across his palm that’s bleeding freely.
“This might need stitches,” I say, grabbing a clean kitchen towel to apply pressure.
“Nah, just slap a bandage on it.” He winces as I press the towel firmly against the cut. “Fuck, that stings.”
“What happened?” I ask, keeping steady pressure on the wound.
“Used a dull knife like a lazy piece of shit.” He gestures toward the offending blade with his good hand. “Been meaning to sharpen them for weeks. Did you know dull knives are actually more dangerous than sharp ones? You have to use more force, which means when you slip—which you inevitably will from treating your knife like a hatchet—you cut yourself worse than you would with a properly maintained knife.”
His rambling has a nervous edge to it. I’ve noticed Kai tends to talk more when he’s uncomfortable, filling silences with chatter.
“First aid kit?” I ask, interrupting what’s becoming a dissertation on knife maintenance.
“Medicine cabinet in my bathroom,” he says, looking relieved at the change of subject. “Upstairs, second door on the left.”
“Keep pressure on this,” I instruct, guiding his right hand to hold the towel in place. “I’ll be right back.”
I head upstairs, finding Kai’s bathroom without difficulty. It’s surprisingly neat, with expensive-looking products arranged on the counter and fluffy towels hanging perfectly straight. The medicine cabinet reveals an equally organized interior—toothpaste, dental floss, cologne, and several prescription bottles.
I grab the first-aid kit from the bottom shelf, but my eyes catch on one of the prescription bottles. It isn’t an intentional decision to invade his privacy, but I read the label on instinct before I even realize I’m doing it.
Alphastat 50mgis printed in large block letters above Kai’s full name.
It’s a drug that I immediately recognize. Alphastat is a powerful rut blocker that alphas sometimes take to suppress their biological urges.
