Warren steps in closer. “Are you sure he didn’t tear something? Maybe he needs a scan.”
The doctor’s mouth tightens as he frowns at my leg. “It’s infected.”
“Infected?” I grit out, trying not to pant.I’m so fucking dizzy.
My head falls back onto the sweat-soaked pillow, exhaustion forcing my eyes to close. I breathe deeply, listening as they keep talking.
“Has he had chills? Night sweats?" Dr. Pace asks. “Vomiting?”
“Yes,” Warren says immediately. “All of it.”
“I’m fine,” I snap, as sweat slicks at my temples.
“You’re not,” Dr. Pace says, firmer now. “And this can turn dangerous quickly if we ignore it.”
I hear Grason’s big feet move closer. “What do we do?”
“Antibiotics,” Dr. Pace says. “Bloodwork. We need to see how bad it is, and we need to make sure it hasn’t spread.” His gaze drops to my knee again. “And you need to stop putting weight on it. You’re inflaming tissue and feeding the infection every time you push.”
There’s a beat of silence, and I force my eyes open.
Everyone is staring at me—Warren, Grason, Pace—and it makes my temper flare hotter than the fever. My vision swims again, dark around the edges, and I hate that more than the pain. Hate that my body keeps betraying me in front of them.
“You’re all overreacting,” I grit out, breath coming a little too shallow.
Warren’s head snaps toward me, but it isn’t anger tightening his jaw this time—it’s something quieter. Softer. His voice drops low and steady, the edges worn thin with worry. “With respect, alpha,” he takes a slow breath, “you aren’t fine. At all.”
There’s no reprimand in it. Genuine concern. The kind that makes my chest pull tight and my temper feel stupidly misplaced.
“I found it!”
Beck breaks the tension as he flies into the room, all restless limbs and nervous energy. His slim frame moves with that jittery kind of grace only he has. “Here’s the knee brace he’s using, doctor—” He stops mid-stride, winces, then corrects himself quickly. “I mean—uh—the brace heshouldbe using.”
He holds it out with both hands like it might explode, eyes flicking between me and the doctor as if gauging who’s more likely to bite.
Dr. Pace takes it with a small smile. “Thank you.”
Beck’s shoulders straighten immediately, a relieved grin spreading across his face. He pushes a few strands of his light brown hair off his forehead, almost shy with how proud he is to be useful.
The way he fusses tells me exactly how anxious he is.
“How’s it look?” Beck asks the doctor, leaning in a little, eager for good news.
“We’re almost done,” Dr. Pace says, but his eyes stay on my leg like he doesn’t trust it. His fingers hover over my knee and then pull back, expression tightening. “No brace,” he adds, voice firm. “Not until this infection is under control. The skin’s too hot and angry. We shouldn’t trap it and make it worse.”
Beck freezes with the brace in his hands.
Warren’s posture goes rigid.
Grason’s stare turns flat and sharp.
I really fucking hate this.
Hate being laid out like some wounded thing while they look on, pretending not to see how broken I am.
I try to lift my head, but it feels too light for my body, dizzy in a way that makes me want to bite someone.
Dr. Pace reaches into his bag and pulls out a syringeand a small vial. The sight of the needle makes my stomach turn, hard and mean.
