Page 3 of Healing the Alpha

Kyle gives me a hard, frustrated stare, his scent flaring heavily. If I were any other alpha it would get my hackles up, but I’ve put up with enough of Kyle’s hot-headedness over the years to be functionally immune to his alpha pheromones. I knew he wouldn’t take the news that he needs looking after well; he’s my best friend in the world and I could wax poetic about his good qualities all day, but he can also turn into a hardheaded, stubborn knucklehead as soon as he thinks something is threatening his independence.

“Fuck,” he mumbles eventually.

I grin, trying to lighten the sudden heaviness in the room. “It’ll be like old times,” I say, going to slap him on the leg but thinking better of it at the last second. “I used to do most of the cooking anyway.”

“I don’t know if I’d call frozen pizza ‘cooking’,” he says.

“At least I can cook pizza without burning it.”

“I only did that a handful of times.”

“Yeah, because you stopped attempting to cook anything at all after you nearly burned our kitchen down with a pepperoni deep dish.”

Kyle rolls his eyes, but doesn’t have anything to bite back with. We lived together for the entirety of our twenties, until we both turned thirty and Kyle decided that two fully grown alphas in their thirties should probably have their own space. It made bringing omegas home a lot easier, but realistically we still spend almost all of our time together outside of sleeping. And a lot more of our paychecks goes on rent and cabs between our apartments now.

He stares up at the chipped hospital ceiling tiles, his jaw tight, but I can see the fight leaving him already. He’s battered, and bruised, and he knows he doesn’t have a choice.

“I can move my shifts around so I can be at your apartment mornings and after work,” I say, keeping my tone light to stop him from spiraling. “Perks of being the boss. I’ll crash on your couch when I need to, go back to mine the rest of the time. No biggie.”

Kyle turns his head slightly to face me, a rare hint of vulnerability bleeding through his usual tough-guy front. “You’ve got a gym to run. Shit to do. Fights to go to. You can’t be running around after me.”

“Bold to assume you’re going to be moving any faster than a slow hobble,” I smirk, the knot in my chest loosening slightly when he flashes me a familiar, dangerous glare.

“Asshole.”

“Dumbass.” I flick the covers, not actually touching him. “The gym’s not going anywhere. There’s Marcus, and Jed, and I’ll still be going in during the day. You’re not talking me out of this, so start getting used to the idea.”

The room is quiet save for the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor. Kyle lets out a defeatist sigh, and his hazelnut scent softens, his eyelids drooping as the morphine starts to kick in.

“Fine,” he mutters. “But only because it’s you.”

I frown, expecting a smartass comment back but putting his choice of words down to the drugs as his eyes slip closed, a rumble sounding from his chest.

“Go back to sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up,” I say softly, but his breathing has already evened out, his head tipped back against the mound of pillows.

I lean back in the uncomfortable plastic chair next to his bed and watch him sleep as the rain lashes against the windows, so fucking relieved that my best friend is still around to call me an asshole.

Kyle

“Put it down, Ky!”

Max’s scolding voice floats into the kitchen, and I whirl around, hissing at the sharp pain that stabs up through my arm and into my neck. Max is nowhere to be seen, still in the living room.

“I’m not picking anything up,” I lie, pulling my hand away from the jar of peanut butter I’d been reaching for with my left hand. Sure, my wrist is still technically sprained, and it’s not exactly comfortable to do, well, anything with it, but I can’t just stand around while Max waits on me like I’m a giant, incapacitated baby. No matter what my doctors say.

I can’t work. I can’t go to the gym. I can’t cook, not that I was any good at it anyway. It takes me half an hour to get myself dressed, and I have to piss sitting down. Wiping my own ass feels like scaling Everest.

I can’t even jerk off.

All I can do is watch TV, scroll mindlessly on my phone with one sad, bruised finger, and stare out the window.

It’s only been two weeks, and if it weren’t for Max coming over and keeping me company while I do one of the three aforementioned activities, I’d have gone clinically insane on day two.

Max strolls into the kitchen, still wearing his gym training clothes. “You were about to open that jar of peanut butter.”

“How could you possibly know that?” I mutter.

“Because I know you. Sit down, I’ll make you a sandwich.”