Pulling the blankets up with me, extending the snuggly warmth for a few more seconds, I sit up to mark off the calendar. I’m not shocked that I’ve been here for just over two weeks. It feels longer, but at the same time, the days have flown.
I jump up out of bed and into action.
I’ve started every morning the same—a walk along the water's edge to a tiny coffee shop I found on the first day. Before…the incident, I started most days with a jog. But my body is taking its time recovering, and for once, I’m not terribly concerned by the idea of putting on some extra weight.
Bundling my hair into a knot, I do a quick inspection of my face. The swelling has gone down, leaving a ghostly mustard color in its wake, but I’m not going to let it hold me back. It is what it is, and I’m making the best out of being here. Tomas was right about the room not being much, but it is safe and warm. Since Rocco burned everything I owned, replacing the essentials has been a slow process, but the local thrift shop has been a blessing.
I hate being a charity case, but I’m not going to make it even harder for myself. The best thing I can do now is work hard and get better. I planned to ask Jana for an advance on my paycheck, but she and her pack are generosity personified. Food is delivered to my door constantly, and money in an envelope is pushed under my door several times a week.
Each day I spend here, I’m feeling better. I’m finding my bearings and blending in. Today is the first time I’ve pushed myself past an easy stroll to a light jog, but by the time I reach the coffee shop, I’ve hit my limit.
The Dock is full of an infectious energy that people seem to gravitate toward. I’m not the only one making use of the walkway or the seats scattered around, but it is quieter thanusual this morning, maybe because of the drop in temperature overnight.
Despite the breeze, that’s got an edge to it, I head toward one of my favorite spots along the river sidewalk. The builders installed stairs that go under the waterline, but they're also built to sit on. Which is what I do—I sit and watch the morning and finish my iced coffee.
Another blast of the cold wind, and I mentally add visiting the thrift store for things I need to do today. Warmer clothes are at the top of my list. As I continue to brainstorm the items I need most, a series of gunshots shatters the morning peace.
Before I can think too hard about all the reasons I shouldn’t help, I’m racing toward the noise. People are fighting; over the wind, I can make out the pounding of flesh before groans of pain. And then I hear thudding, like bodies dropping. There’s an eerie pause, and a moment later, a gunshot echoes from an alley, and I change directions, running toward it.
By the time I reach the entrance to the alley, all I can hear is the whooshing of my blood in my ears. Still, I hesitate, peeking my head around the corner to make sure no one is waiting to pounce. I find two bodies lying feet apart, a small flicker of movement from one of them. Immediately, my survival senses turn to rescue mode. Racing straight past the darkest shadows, I take in the scene, and my basic first aid training kicks into gear.
I check the first guy; he’s an Alpha. He’s also wearing a black suit with way too many gold chains. Despite him clearly being injured and needing help, something draws my attention to the other guy.
They obviously share the same expensive tailor, though this guy’s suit is blue. And he is a Beta. I can pick it up in his subtle vanilla scent as easily as I can tell the other man is an Alpha.
He’s out of it, too, not making a noise. Maybe I’m drawn to the fact that he’s a Beta—or to the way his jaw grits, even whilehe’s unconscious, or maybe it’s the skin peeking out from under his shirt—but I go to him first.
Kneeling next to him, I run my fingers along the top of his shirt, to do a quick pulse check, before running down the checklist I remember from my first aid course. His airways are fine, his breathing steady. I pull up his jacket, unsurprised by the blood spreading over his white shirt from somewhere along his waistline.
Rolling him to his side, I check for more bullet wounds or an exit wound but don’t find one. He doesn’t have any others on his torso or above, but I find evidence of another gunshot wound on his pants.
Using my T-shirt, I rip pieces of material to make a tourniquet for his leg. The bleeding isn’t as bad as the one near his waist, but the evidence might also be hidden in the shadows. I’m not about to undress him to check.
Neither of them wakes up, although the man I’m helping does make small noises, especially when I pull his shirt up to check the damage. I get a little derailed from my attempt at being a good nurse, stunned by his impressive abs. The Beta has the markings for a perfect V too. Then the smell of blood reminds me I’m here to help, not creep on the unconscious man. His subtle scent of faint vanilla makes me reconsider though, that’s for sure.
I’m completely focused on trying to slow the blood when I feel something curl around my back to rest on my waist, and I scream.
“Shh.”
His eyes might be at half-mast, but by god, they’re something else. He’s got dangerously attractive eyes. I’m sure the color is brown, but they’re rich and deep, not chocolate brown at all, but so much closer to black.
“Sorry. I had to make sure you were real,” he says softly. “I thought I was dead for a second. You’re a goddess.”
“Yeah, well, there’s still a chance you might die,” I mumble. My panic makes me flounder until I take a deep breath and get back to trying to stop the bleeding, ignoring his hand on my waist and another waft of his scent in my direction.
I’ve never actually spent a lot of time with or dated a Beta for the simple reason that they usually try so hard to pretend they’re not one. But Betas are an integral part of our society. They’re the buffer between aggression and submission, keeping everyone in a more balanced place. While I continue working on him, I start to question why I had such an aversion to them before.
He watches me, and it’s unnerving how different it feels compared to being looked at by, or even being in the presence of, an Alpha. It’s hard to properly explain how being this close to a Beta feels more relaxing, when you don’t have to contend with the worry about an Alpha’s bark or bite. Strange thoughts keep me company as I get back to helping.
“Hold this,” I say, and when he goes to move his hand off my waist, I lift it for him and start to climb to my feet.
“Don’t touch him,” he says even before I stand fully.
“Huh?”
“He’s not a good person. He doesn’t deserve your time.”
Right. The injured Alpha. The Beta is in front of me is pretty fucking stunning with his dark brown eyes, and glossy, nearly black hair. Even in the dark, and after being attacked, he’s still got it all. He knows he’s goodlooking too but it only adds to his appeal.
