His mouth quirks like he’s about to argue. “Therapy can wait.”
“No,” I say immediately, pushing lightly at his chest. “It can’t.”
Cass’s smirk falters, replaced by a look of pure disbelief. "Tansy?—"
"Don't 'Tansy' me," I snip, cutting him off. "Any pain you have is now in my head, a constant, throbbing reminder that you're being an idiot. Your knee isn't justyourproblem anymore, it'sminetoo. So you're going to go to your physical therapy, and you're going to let them fix it, because I refuse to suffer because you're too proud to take care of yourself."
The alpha stares at me, his mouth slightly agape.
For a solid ten seconds, he looks utterly speechless, completely blindsided by my logic. The disbelief in his eyes slowly melts away, replaced by something else—a grudging, almost impressed sort of awe.
He finally lets out a short, sharp breath that's half-laugh, half-sigh. He shakes his head slowly, running a hand through his dark hair. "Unbelievable," he mumbles, more to himself than to me, but the corner of his mouth is twitching like he's fighting a smile. “You’re fucking ruthless.”
“No shit,” I shoot back.
He might not like it—but he’s fucking going.
Something amused and fond flickers through our bond before Cass lets out a defeated sigh. “Fine.” He squeezes my waist once more. “We’ll finish this later,” he growls, and my clit throbs in response.
I silently slip off the alpha’s lap, pulling the blanket tighter around myself as he shifts carefully to stand. I stay where I am, watching while he gets dressed.
My gaze drags over the alpha, taking in the sheer power of his form. He has to be six-two, maybe six-three, but it’s not just his height. His build is solid. Not gym-polished, butearned. Broad shoulders stretch the fabric of his solid blackT-shirts, forearms roped with thick muscle and prominent veins that give away how strong he is.
Every movement he makes is measured, heavy with the quiet confidence of someone who has never once had to explain himself.
Even standing still, Cass takes up too much space, like the room itself bends around his presence.
He’s mine.
And there’s no going back to what things were before.
The Living Room
Warren
I standnear the base of the staircase with my arms crossed, watching the physical therapist unpack her equipment.
She’s a young beta. Maybe mid-twenties. Attractive in a clean, efficient way, with pink scrubs and a high, tight ponytail. She adjusts the height of a portable table, lays out resistance bands, then checks a tablet with Cass’s file on it.
She seems friendly, but professional. Exactly the kind of person you want handling a long, frustrating recovery.
Cass sits on the edge of the couch, jaw set, already looking like he hates every fucking second of this.
Dr. Pace, unfortunately, looks far too comfortable.
He’s chatting with Beck and Grason like nothing is wrong, smiling easy as he gestures with his coffee cup. “—It’s all about consistency,” Pace is saying. “Routine. Small adjustments over time make a bigger difference than people expect.”
Beck hums in agreement, nodding along like he actually understands. Grason looks bored.
I don’t hear most of what the older beta is saying.
All I can see is Pace’s hands.
The same hands that injected Tansy with a heat accelerator without permission. The same hands that pumped Beck full of omega-specific medication like he was a fucking test rat.
I don’t say a word. I don’t even move. I stare at him, hard and unblinking, letting the full weight of my attention settle where it belongs.
Pace notices eventually.
