Page 2 of Healing the Alpha

“Kyle Felham,” she says, clicking something on her screen and giving me a reassuring smile. “I’ve just found him on the system. Room 398. Take the elevator to the third floor and follow the signs.”

“Thank you.”

I don’t wait for the elevator. I take the stairs two at a time. A hundred different signs are pointing me in different directions, but I finally find my way to room 398, pushing open the door so aggressively that the nurse who’s hovering in the room gives me a pointed look, pressing her fingers to her lips.

But I couldn’t give a shit, because Kyle is lying in a hospital bed in front of me with one arm in a sling and half his face scraped raw, but breathing, and the mixture of nausea and relief that washes over me is enough to have me bent double, my hands on my knees as I fight back the fire in my lungs.

Kyle’s eyes are closed, the thin hospital bedcovers pulled up to his waist. Wires are running from his wrist to a heart monitor next to the bed, a jarring beep sounding every few seconds.

“Is he okay?” I rasp when I’ve caught my breath. “Sorry about the entrance. They didn’t tell me much on the phone. I was freaking out the whole way over here. I didn’t know—”

I cut myself off, unable to finish the thought. A wave of dizziness forces me into the chair next to his bed.

“Bless your heart,” the nurse says gently, her expression softening as she smooths down the bedcovers. “He’ll live. He had a bad fall off of some scaffolding. The arm is broken, and his other wrist is sprained from where he tried to break his fall. A couple of broken ribs, some pretty nasty scrapes, but no lasting damage to his spine and no concussion. He’s on some strong painkillers, so he’s out for the count. He’ll feel like he’s been run over by a truck in the morning, and he’s going to need some help surviving for the next few weeks, but all things considered, he got away remarkably lightly.”

“Thank fuck,” I breathe, not taking my eyes off Kyle. “Sorry. Thank you. Thank you.”

She places a warm hand on my shoulder. “I’ll leave you to it. He’s maxed out on morphine, but he’ll be able to press the button for more in a couple of hours.”

It’s quiet when she leaves the room. The lighting in here is white and sterile, and I get an overwhelming craving to be back in the warmth of Duke’s, or in the safety of my apartment with Kyle eating all my food in the background, without his arm in a sling or a gash in his cheek.

I run my fingers through my hair, letting out a shaky breath and instinctively searching for Kyle’s scent through the sterile smell of antiseptic. I rest a hand on his knee over the blanket, just to reassure myself that he’s actually all there.

Eventually I drop off in the chair, falling into a disturbed, uncomfortable half-sleep. I wake up, disoriented and dry-mouthed, to the sound of Kyle groaning.

“Hhrrmph. Fuck. Oh, god.”

Gray light is filtering through the wide hospital windows, and it takes me several seconds to remember where I am. Kyle instinctively tries to push himself up using his hands, recoiling in pain as his body makes it clear that’s not going to be possible for a while. I jerk upright.

“Hey, hey, slow down,” I say. “The nurse said you can push the button for more morphine.”

Kyle blinks at me groggily. “How am I meant to push the fucking button, Einstein?”

I look down at his arms, one in a sling and a cast, the other with a brace around his wrist, and snort a groggy laugh. I find the morphine button hanging from a wire next to the bed and press it for him.

“Why do they give you so many goddamn pillows in these places?” he sighs, leaning back into his well-fluffed pillows with a grimace.

“I wish I had a fucking pillow,” I mumble, rubbing at a knot in my upper back.

“I’d throw one at you if I had the use of my limbs,” he deadpans. “How long’ve you been here?”

“Not sure. A few hours. I raced over here as soon as they called me, nearly had a heart attack on the way over.” I shake my head, trying to keep my voice casual, but it comes out strained. “You scared the fucking balls off me, man.”

Kyle gives me a faint, lopsided smirk, then winces when the movement pulls at the raw skin of his cheek. “Surprised I could pull you away from Duke’s.”

“You know, if you didn’t want to lose to me at pool for the hundredth week in a row, you could have just told me,” I shoot back. “No need to throw yourself off the nearest building.”

“Fuck you, give me two weeks and I’ll be back to beating your ass.”

“Two weeks?” I chuckle, leaning forward to brace my forearms on the edge of the bed, careful not to bump any of his injured limbs. “I’ll still be hand feeding you soup after two weeks. I don’t know how much they told you last night, but you’re gonna be out of action for a while.”

Kyle frowns, his scent taking on a sour edge. “They always overexaggerate in these places.”

“Hospitals?” I balk. “I don’t think they do, buddy. Look, it’s fine. I can sleep on your sofa, help out with bills if you need it while you’re off work—”

“The fuck you will,” he snaps. “I’m thirty-three years old, Ky, I’m not having you coming over and cooking my meals like I’m a fucking toddler.”

“Okay, cool, you’re just gonna open cans of soup with your feet and chew through them like a rabid gopher, are you?”