But Dr. Peters is an Alpha too, and clearly, these two have some clash going on because he refuses to budge. My own designation rises as fast as theirs. While they instinctively wind each other up, Omegas have an ability to calm. Well, that’s how I justify my actions, forcing myself into the space between them because, at the end of the day, as the senior doctor, I’m responsible for everyone’s well-being.
I look at Peters for an explanation. He’s as pissed off as our patient, given the glare he’s directing over my shoulder, despite my interference.
“What’s going on?” I push, dropping as much command as I can into my question. Admittedly, it always pisses me off when we have to deal with Alpha BS instead of tending to wounds, so I come off pretty aggressively.
I feel the air shift behind me.
For an Omega to be sensitive to others is common, manageable with medication and lotions. Considering I’ve already done everything I could to counter the impact of other designations ie. Alphas, the way I start responding to the smallest cues from our patient is probably not a good sign.
“Nichego,” the man snaps before hissing under his breath like an angry viper. “Nyet!Nothing to knock me out.”
I turn to face our patient, watching as he slams his eyes shut and pushes himself against the pillows in his bitchy mood. His halo of hair is black as night and highlights a large scar running down his forehead, ending on his cheek. His accent gave him away as Eastern European, reinforced by his high, sharp facial structure and thin, straight nose.
With his eyes still firmly shut, he jabs his finger at my anesthesiologist with one hand while scratching at his throat with the other. “Thissukanot listen. My arm…”
In the middle of our patient losing his shit, his breathing becomes labored. His eyes fly open, but they’re full of panic, leeching the color from them. “Feels like fire. My…”
What he’s trying to say gets buried deep under a long groan. The sound he makes is universal and only comes from distress. His limbs seize up, his body becoming as stiff as a board.
We all jump into rescue mode.
His face is a vivid shade of red and getting darker, and his fingers are clawed.
Anaphylactic shock is horrific to witness. And clearly something we’ve given him triggers it.
I disassociate from the scene and react on learned memory.
“Clear,” I yell as I jam the medication into the Alpha’s thigh.
Given the Alpha’s size, I use a second EpiPen.
With the medication administered, we move on to fixing his breathing issues. Reaching into the drawer to get a tongue press so we can insert a tube, my fingers close around nothing. The nurse opposite turns to check her drawer for what we need, but we’re wasting time, and our patient isn’t breathing.
I have my fingers, and in an emergency, they will do. I wedge them into his mouth, fighting hard to open his jaw. I need to press his tongue down to open his airways, and I need to do it now.
It’s hard work, but I keep wiggling in the small space, plying my fingers in deeper.
“Where the hell is the…”
An endotracheal intubation is passed over before I can finish speaking. The nurse moves in and helps me. It’s hard going; the Alpha’s body is still in panic mode and subconsciously fighting against me doing my job.
She shifts out of my way, so I can wiggle the tube in better, then she drops her weight on his chest in an attempt to calm hisnatural, primordial side. It works, and we get the tube down his throat.
We’re working around each other, and our hands crisscross as she attaches the tube to the pump. Something tugs the tube, but she doesn’t notice the shift because she’s focusing on setting up the manual intubation. I go to fix the positioning of the tube when his jaw snaps shut, locking down on my hand.
“Oh my god!” I whine desperately, feeling the power of his bite radiate all the way down my arm right to my finger tips.
Where there was a coordinated approach to the patient, the focus of the team shifts, and everyone wrestles with him to free my hand. But he’s completely out of it, so it’s like fighting concrete.
I’m as useless as he is, doing nothing to help. I come back to my senses the moment he stops biting down. But then, before I can process what is going on, I’m rushed out of the room by one of the junior doctors and herded into a spare workspace.
“Shit, Quinn,” the doctor says, his voice pitching in his stress.
“It’s okay,” I mumble to myself. My pulse is hammering so hard, it’s making the adrenaline flood my system like a powerful tsunami crashing against my defenses.
Never in a million years would I think something like this would happen to me. In med school, you hear about some really shitty injuries happening when patients are freaking out, but that’s not the same as it actually happening.
The doctor puts my shaking hand flat on an examination table, pulling down the light, which acts like a spotlight on the Alpha’s crescent-shaped bite. My skin is hidden under the blood around the bite. I see it, but only just as my vision tunnels and a howling noise builds in my ears. Squeezing my eyes shut, I start taking short, panting breaths so I don’t fucking faint.
