The Alpha’s Doctor

Betty Pov

I have always hated the sound of silence.

Not the peaceful kind.

I mean the other kind.

The kind that becomes painfully loud when you’re the only person in an apartment.

The kind that reminds you there is nobody waiting for you when you get home.

Nobody asking how your day was.

Nobody complaining that you forgot to eat.

Nobody calling from the kitchen to tell you that dinner is getting cold.

I learned that kind of silence when I was twenty-five.

One year ago.

The day my grandmother died.

People always tell you that grief gets easier.

They lie.

It doesn’t get easier.

It gets quieter.

That’s different.

The pain doesn’t disappear. It simply learns how to sit in the corner of the room without screaming.

Sometimes I forget she’s gone.

I’ll walk through a grocery store and see the brand of tea she always bought, and my hand will reach for my phone before my brain catches up.

Sometimes I’ll have a terrible day and think, I’ll tell Grandma.

Then I remember.

Those are the moments that hurt the most.

I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror and force the thought away.

“You’re doing it again.”

My reflection looks exhausted.

Twenty-six years old.

Silver hair twisted into a messy bun.

Pale skin that makes the dark circles beneath my eyes look even worse.

One blue eye.

One green.

And a face that has apparently decided it wants to look like a Barbie doll while the rest of me is determined to look like a sleep-deprived doctor.

I sigh.

“Beautiful and miserable. Great combination.”

I tighten my hair tie.

Today is going to be a long day.

I know it before I even leave my apartment.

I work too much.

I know that.

Mira reminds me at least three times a week.

Sandy reminds me every time she sees me.

But medicine is the one thing in my life that has always made sense.

People don’t.

Relationships don’t.

Life definitely doesn’t.

But medicine?

Medicine has rules.

There is a reason someone is sick.

There is a diagnosis.

A treatment.

A plan.

You find the problem.

You fix it.

Simple.

I like simple.

Maybe that’s why I became a doctor.

Or maybe Grandma was right when she told me I was born trying to save everyone.

I smile faintly at the memory.

“Stop trying to save the world, Betty.”

That had been one of her favorite things to tell me.

I’d always given her the same answer.

“Someone has to.”

She would laugh.

God, I miss that laugh.

My eyes drift toward the small silver frame sitting on the bathroom shelf.

A photograph of the two of us.

Grandma hated having her picture taken.

She always said cameras made her look old.

She was seventy-three when she died.

She had been beautiful anyway.

Strong.

Stubborn.

Impossible.

I pick up the frame.

For one second, my thumb traces the edge.

“You’re supposed to be here.”

The words leave my mouth before I can stop them.

I close my eyes.

Then put the photograph down.

Today isn’t the day.

I can’t fall apart today.

I grab my bag and leave the apartment.

The hallway is quiet.

Too quiet.

I lock my door and stand there for a second, staring at the number above it.

For some reason, I don’t want to move.

Then my phone vibrates.

Mira: Are you alive?

I smile.

Me: Unfortunately.

The reply comes immediately.

Mira: Good. I need a lawyer’s fee.

I laugh under my breath.

Me: You’re my lawyer.

Mira: Exactly. Friends and family discount.

Another message appears.

Sandy: BOTH OF YOU STOP TEXTING AND GET COFFEE.

I stare at the screen.

Me: How do you know we’re texting?

Three dots appear.

Disappear.

Appear again.

Sandy: Because I’m gifted.

I shake my head.

Those two have been in my life since high school.

Sometimes I wonder how I survived before them.

Mira is the responsible one.

Sandy is chaos in expensive shoes.

And I’m apparently the exhausted middle ground.

We couldn’t be more different.

Yet somehow, they became my family.

The only family I have left.

I slide my phone into my pocket and head toward the elevator.

As I step inside, I catch my reflection in the mirrored wall.

Tall.

Curvy.

Silver hair.

Strange eyes.

People stare.

They always have.

When I was younger, I hated it.

I’d hide my eyes.

Wear my hair differently.

Avoid looking directly at people.

Grandma wouldn’t let me.

She’d stand behind me while I looked in the mirror and say,

“Those eyes are yours. Don’t ever apologize for them.”

I remember asking her once why they were different.

She’d smiled.

“Because you’re special.”

I’d rolled my eyes.

“Everyone says that.”

Grandma’s smile had disappeared for just a second.

“No, Betty. I mean it.”

I’d never understood what she meant.

I still don’t.

Eventually, I stopped caring about people staring.

Now, when someone looks too long, I look back.

Usually, they look away first.

It became a small game.

The elevator reaches the lobby.

The doors open.

And the world starts moving.

By the time I reach the hospital, I’ve already finished half my coffee.

The emergency department is exactly what I expect.

Busy.

Loud.

Chaotic.

Perfect.

“Morning, Doctor.”

“Morning.”

“Morning, Betty.”

“Hey.”

I slip into my white coat and check the board.

Six patients waiting.

Three incoming.

One trauma alert.

I take a breath.

Here we go.

The next several hours disappear.

A broken wrist.

A fever.

A teenager who apparently thought jumping from a roof into a swimming pool was a brilliant idea.

It wasn’t.

Then a woman with chest pain.

I move from one patient to another.

I forget to eat.

Again.

I forget to drink water.

Again.

At some point, one of the nurses puts a sandwich beside my computer.

I look at it.

Then at her.

She points at me.

“Eat.”

I smile.

“Yes, ma’am.”

I take one bite.

My phone vibrates.

Mira.

Mira: Lunch. Today. Don’t cancel.

I type with one hand.

Me: Can’t promise.

Her reply is immediate.

Mira: Betty.

I smile.

Me: Fine.

A second later:

Mira: Good. I love you.

I stare at the message for a second.

Then type:

Me: Love you too.

I put the phone down.

Something about those words makes my chest ache.

Not because of Mira.

Because of Grandma.

She used to say it every night.

Love you, baby.

And I’d answer without thinking.

Love you too.

Now there is nobody on the other end of that conversation.

I look away.

No.

Not today.

I take another bite of my sandwich.

The emergency department continues around me.

People come in.

People leave.

Some crying.

Some laughing.

Some terrified.

Some relieved.

Life happening all around me.

And for a while, I am exactly where I belong.

Until the trauma doors suddenly burst open.

“Male, approximately thirty!”

“Motorcycle accident!”

“Possible internal bleeding!”

Everything inside me changes.

The sandwich disappears from my mind.

The grief disappears.

The loneliness disappears.

There is only the patient.

I move.

Fast.

“Get the trauma bay ready.”

“Already calling imaging.”

“Two IV lines.”

“Blood work and cross-match.”

The doors open.

The paramedics rush in with the stretcher.

I step forward.

And then I see him.

He’s covered in blood.

Dark hair.

Broad shoulders.

Even injured, he looks powerful.

Dangerous.

The kind of man who makes a room feel smaller simply by existing inside it.

My first thought is that he doesn’t look like someone who should be lying on a stretcher.

My second is that his injuries are worse than they look.

There is blood everywhere.

Too much of it.

“Sir?”

No response.

I check his pulse.

Fast.

Weak.

“Can you hear me?”

His fingers move.

His eyelids twitch.

I lean closer.

“Sir, open your eyes.”

They do.

And suddenly

I’m staring into the darkest eyes I’ve ever seen.

For one strange second, neither of us moves.

Something changes in his expression.

Not fear.

Not confusion.

Recognition.

His pupils widen.

His entire body goes rigid despite the pain.

And he looks at me like…

Like he’s been searching for me.

My heart gives one strange, hard beat.

I ignore it.

“Can you tell me your name?”

His lips part.

Nothing comes out.

“Sir?”

His breathing becomes rough.

His eyes remain locked on mine.

Then his hand suddenly catches my wrist.

His grip is shockingly strong.

I freeze.

“Easy.”

His fingers loosen slightly.

His lips move.

I lean closer.

“What did you say?”

His voice is barely a whisper.

“Mate.”

I stare at him.

“What?”

His eyes close.

His grip disappears.

For one second, the entire room seems to go silent.

Then the monitor screams.

“He’s crashing!”

Everything snaps back into focus.

“Let’s go!”

I move instantly.

“Get another line in.”

“Pressure’s dropping!”

“Prepare blood.”

“Doctor, we’re losing him!”

“I’m not losing him.”

I don’t know why I say it with such certainty.

Maybe because that’s what doctors do.

We fight.

We don’t get emotionally attached to a stranger who just called us something that makes absolutely no sense.

We don’t stand there wondering why his eyes looked almost relieved when he saw us.

We don’t think about the strange warmth that rushed through our body when he grabbed our wrist.

We certainly don’t wonder why the word mate felt strangely familiar.

We save the patient.

That’s what I do.

So I push everything else away.

For the next several minutes, there is only blood pressure, oxygen, heart rate, medication, instructions.

Eventually, the monitors stabilize.

His breathing evens out.

The room slowly exhales.

I remove my gloves.

“Move him to imaging as soon as he’s stable.”

The nurse nods.

I look at him one more time.

His eyes are closed again.

He looks almost peaceful now.

Almost.

I should walk away.

I should forget the strange word he whispered.

I should forget the way he looked at me.

Instead, I stand there for one extra second.

And I have the strangest feeling I’ve just met someone who is going to completely destroy the carefully organized life I’ve built.

I don’t know his name yet.

I don’t know where he came from.

I don’t know why he called me mate.

I don’t know why, for one impossible moment, hearing that word didn’t sound completely wrong.

And I definitely don’t know that the man lying on my trauma table is David Blackwood.

I don’t know that he is an Alpha.

I don’t know that somewhere inside him, a wolf has already recognized me.

I don’t know that my grandmother may have known more about me than she ever told me.

All I know is that when I finally walk away from the trauma bay…

I look back.

Just once.

And his eyes are open.

Watching me.

Betty Pov

The monitors were screaming.

For a fraction of a second, everything around me became noise.

The alarms.

The nurses.

The footsteps.

Someone calling for blood.

Someone asking for the ultrasound.

But my eyes stayed on him.

“He’s crashing.”

I heard the words, but my body had already moved.

“Pressure?”

“Seventy over forty.”

“Heart rate?”

“One hundred thirty-eight.”

“Get another line in.”

I moved to the side of the bed.

“Let’s get him stabilized before we move him anywhere.”

My hands were steady.

They always were.

That was one thing I had learned very early in medicine.

You could be terrified.

You could be exhausted.

You could have no idea what was going to happen next.

But your hands couldn’t show it.

A patient didn’t need to see your fear.

They needed to see certainty.

Even when you didn’t feel it.