The doctor blinks, startled. “Oh—” He frowns as he picks up his tablet, tapping the screen. “I must’ve noted that wrong in your file. My apologies, Mr. Vexler. I assumed an alpha of your standing?—”
“It’s fine,” I say as my hands slowly curl into fists.
I need everyone out of here now.
Pace clears his throat, obviously sensing my agitation. “Of course. My mistake.” He gathers his bag quickly, tucking instruments and gloves into neat compartments, every movement too careful. Grason steps forward silently, towering as he gestures toward the door.
“I’ll walk you out,” he says, voice low and polite.
The door shuts behind them, and relief washes over me.
For a long moment, no one moves. The only sound is the steady tick of the clock on the far wall and the faint creak of the bed when I shift my weight. The burn in my thigh lingers, and my skin still feels wrong-hot.
“What are you doing?” Warren asks, hands coming up automatically as I edge toward the side of the mattress.
“Getting up,” I say, pointing out the obvious.
Warren steps in, reaching for me—ready to steady me, to drag me back, todo something—but I lift one hand, palm out.
He instantly stops.
I appreciate his worry. I really do. He wears it plainly, tension in every line of his body, sharp blue eyes tracking every twitch of mine like I might topple over at any second.
But there’s no need for it.
“I’ve got it,” I tell him quietly. A warning and a reassurance all at once.
Warren takes a step closer, eyes narrowing. “The doctor said you need bed rest until the antibiotics kick in,” he practically snarls, eyes narrowed. “You’re not going anywhere.”
“I’m fine,” I snap. “I need to move.”
I plant my good foot on the floor and push myself upright, careful not to put any weight on the bad knee. The room tilts the second I’m vertical. My leg throbs, a deep, dragging ache that crawls up my thigh and hip, punching right into my gut. Sweat breaks fresh along my spine.
Beck makes a small, choked sound—half huff, half panicked whine. “Cass, please,” he begs, darting forward. “Please lie back down. You’re burning up.”
Before I can argue, the beta tucks himself under my arm, wedging his slim shoulder against my ribs like he’s bracing a falling tree. The top of his head barely reaches my sternum. His help is…not helpful. Not in any practical sense.
But it’s sweet.
And I can’t bring myself to push him away.
So I don’t.
I shift my arm, lowering it enough to rest across his shoulders, pretending like his small frame is actually helping. Beck beams like he’s won a battle no one else is fighting.
His aroma—clean linen with that faint edge of rain-soaked cedar—seeps into me as he presses closer. It settles around my ribs, softening the sharp edges of the pain. Beck always smells like comfort.
For a second, I let myself breathe it in. It makes the doctor’s comment about needing an omega feel like bullshit. I don’t need a goddamn omega. I have the most perfect beta in the world already.
The bedroom door opens, and Grason steps back inside. He fills the doorway with that massive frame, smoky-hazel eyes taking in the scene in one slow sweep—me half upright, Beck tucked under my arm, Warren coiled and ready to catch.
“Brought you a gift,” Grason says, holding something up. It’s a thick, black cane with a rubber handle and a bulky bottom that looks like it belongs in a hospital, not here. “The doctor had one in his car.” He crosses the room and rests it against the wall by the dresser.
I stare at it. “I’m not fucking using that.”
Beck immediately pulls back enough to gape at it. “That thing’s hideous.”
Warren sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This isn’t a fucking fashion show, Beck.”
