In Bed
Cassian
“Fuck!” The word rips out of me as Dr. Pace presses against my knee, sharp pain flashing white behind my eyes. I’m already sweating through the sheets, damp and sticky.
From somewhere near the foot of the bed, Warren’s flat tone cuts through the tension. “It probably wouldn’t hurt so much if you stopped overdoing it.”
I lift my head to shoot him a glare, but the motion makes the room tilt like I’m on a rough wave.
Warren stands next to the doctor with his arms crossed across his lean chest, dark blond hair swept to one side, and sharp blue eyes zeroed in on mine.
“Glare all you want, alpha,” he says, calm as ever. “But you know I’m right.” His dress shirt is crisp, sleeves rolled to his elbows, the picture of control. And for some reason, that steady, unshakable calm pisses me off even more.
“Are you done yet?” I say to the doctor much harsher than I intend.
The older beta ducks his head, intimidated by my tone, but to his credit, his voice is steady. “Almost, Mr. Vexler,” he says, then he presses his cold fingers against my skin one more time.
This time I’m ready for it. I grit my teeth as he feels along the joint of my knee, fingers prodding deep into the fresh scar tissue. Pain sparks behind my eyes, hot and bright. I swallow hard as nausea rolls up, sudden and ugly.
“It’s so swollen,” Grason murmurs, more to himself than anyone else.
He’s planted at the foot of the bed like a wall—six foot seven and built for violence, whether he wants to be or not.
His tattooed forearms are crossed, thin T-shirt stretched tight across his chest. His black hair is shaved close on the sides, with dark curls left longer on top.
They’re glossy with gel, shoved back like he tried to tame them and gave up halfway through.
And then there are his soft hazel eyes. They look too gentle for the rest of him.
“Did he tear the internal stitches again?” Grason asks.
Dr. Pace shakes his head, still staring at my knee. “No, those dissolved weeks ago.” He squints at the bruised skin, the wrinkles around his eyes pulling deep as he studies it. It’s hard to tell how old he is. Betas age like shit compared to alphas and omegas.
Warren steps in closer. “Are you sure he didn’t tear something? Maybe he needs a scan.”
The doctor’s mouth tightens as he frowns at my leg. “It’s infected.”
“Infected?” I grit out, trying not to pant. I’m so fucking dizzy.
My head falls back onto the sweat-soaked pillow, exhaustion forcing my eyes to close. I breathe deeply, listening as they keep talking.
“Has he had chills? Night sweats?" Dr. Pace asks. “Vomiting?”
“Yes,” Warren says immediately. “All of it.”
“I’m fine,” I snap, as sweat slicks at my temples.
“You’re not,” Dr. Pace says, firmer now. “And this can turn dangerous quickly if we ignore it.”
I hear Grason’s big feet move closer. “What do we do?”
“Antibiotics,” Dr. Pace says. “Bloodwork. We need to see how bad it is, and we need to make sure it hasn’t spread.” His gaze drops to my knee again. “And you need to stop putting weight on it. You’re inflaming tissue and feeding the infection every time you push.”
There’s a beat of silence, and I force my eyes open.
Everyone is staring at me—Warren, Grason, Pace—and it makes my temper flare hotter than the fever. My vision swims again, dark around the edges, and I hate that more than the pain. Hate that my body keeps betraying me in front of them.
“You’re all overreacting,” I grit out, breath coming a little too shallow.
Warren’s head snaps toward me, but it isn’t anger tightening his jaw this time—it’s something quieter. Softer. His voice drops low and steady, the edges worn thin with worry. “With respect, alpha,” he takes a slow breath, “you aren’t fine. At all.”
There’s no reprimand in it. Genuine concern. The kind that makes my chest pull tight and my temper feel stupidly misplaced.
“I found it!”
Beck breaks the tension as he flies into the room, all restless limbs and nervous energy.
His slim frame moves with that jittery kind of grace only he has.
“Here’s the knee brace he’s using, doctor—” He stops mid-stride, winces, then corrects himself quickly.
“I mean—uh—the brace he should be using.”
He holds it out with both hands like it might explode, eyes flicking between me and the doctor as if gauging who’s more likely to bite.
Dr. Pace takes it with a small smile. “Thank you.”
Beck’s shoulders straighten immediately, a relieved grin spreading across his face. He pushes a few strands of his light brown hair off his forehead, almost shy with how proud he is to be useful.
The way he fusses tells me exactly how anxious he is.
“How’s it look?” Beck asks the doctor, leaning in a little, eager for good news.
“We’re almost done,” Dr. Pace says, but his eyes stay on my leg like he doesn’t trust it.
His fingers hover over my knee and then pull back, expression tightening.
“No brace,” he adds, voice firm. “Not until this infection is under control. The skin’s too hot and angry.
We shouldn’t trap it and make it worse.”
Beck freezes with the brace in his hands.
Warren’s posture goes rigid.
Grason’s stare turns flat and sharp.
I really fucking hate this.
Hate being laid out like some wounded thing while they look on, pretending not to see how broken I am.
I try to lift my head, but it feels too light for my body, dizzy in a way that makes me want to bite someone.
Dr. Pace reaches into his bag and pulls out a syringe and a small vial. The sight of the needle makes my stomach turn, hard and mean.
“What’s that?” Beck asks, his voice small and scared.
“Antibiotic,” the doctor says as he taps the top of my thigh, below the hip, like he’s choosing a spot.
A fresh spike of panic hits, and I close my eyes, trying to clamp it down.
Because I’m the pack alpha.
It’s my job to be unshakeable, untouchable, the one who doesn’t break.
Even when every nerve ending in my body screams otherwise.
“Try to relax, Cass,” Beck says softly from somewhere too close, his voice thin with worry.
I force out a breath through my nose, slow and measured. “I am relaxed,” I say, trying, and failing, to sound convincing.
“You’re not,” Dr. Pace says, and he slides the needle in fast.
Fire blooms under my skin. A burn spreads like hot lava through muscle. My eyes sting and water before I can stop it, and I hate that too.
My jaw locks so fast it aches.
“What can we do to make sure he doesn’t overdo it?” Warren asks.
I frown. Being talked about like a fucking child grates down my spine, but I don’t say anything. Not with Beck standing here practically vibrating with nerves.
Warren and Grason are taking this pretty well for the most part. We’re all used to one of us being injured in one way or another.
But Beck…
Beck is my sweet beta.
He doesn’t handle stuff like this well.
“He needs to slow down,” the doctor says, still speaking like I’m not sitting right in front of him.
“Gunshot wounds are hell to begin with, but having a bullet tear through a joint is a whole different kind of beast.” He tosses his used gloves into his medical bag, then finally turns to me.
His eyes cut back to my leg. “You need to take this infection seriously. No hero bullshit.”
I nod once, curtly.
Beck moves closer to Warren, his hands wringing together in front of him. The worry practically radiates off him. It hits me harder than anything the doctor said.
“I’m going to strongly recommend bed rest,” Pace says, straightening his glasses.
“And I’ll be back tomorrow to give you another shot.
You’ll need a daily round of antibiotics until we get this infection under control.
” He presses lightly near the swollen joint, careful, like he’s testing my skin one more time.
“If you do need to get up, then I want you to use a cane. No exceptions.”
My stomach knots.
A cane.
The word alone sets my teeth on edge. Another symbol of weakness—another reminder that I’m not who I used to be.
I open my mouth, ready to tell him exactly where he can put that cane, but Warren cuts in first. “He’ll use it,” he says smoothly, voice leaving no room for argument.
Dr. Pace nods, satisfied. “Good. I’ll bring it with me tomorrow.”
I say nothing.
Because if I do, it won’t be polite.
“One more thing, Mr. Vexler.” Dr. Pace picks up his tablet, tapping out a few notes.
“It would help if your omega stayed close to you during recovery. Physical proximity stimulates faster healing in alphas—regulates hormone levels, lowers pain response.” He hesitates, then carefully adds, “I know alphas don’t like appearing weak in front of their omegas.
Most try to hide injuries, especially ones this severe.
But the more she’s with you, the faster this will heal. ”
I let out a humorless laugh as Warren says, “We don’t have an omega.”
The doctor blinks, startled. “Oh—” He frowns as he picks up his tablet, tapping the screen. “I must’ve noted that wrong in your file. My apologies, Mr. Vexler. I assumed an alpha of your standing—”
“It’s fine,” I say as my hands slowly curl into fists.
I need everyone out of here now.
Pace clears his throat, obviously sensing my agitation. “Of course. My mistake.” He gathers his bag quickly, tucking instruments and gloves into neat compartments, every movement too careful. Grason steps forward silently, towering as he gestures toward the door.
“I’ll walk you out,” he says, voice low and polite.
The door shuts behind them, and relief washes over me.
For a long moment, no one moves. The only sound is the steady tick of the clock on the far wall and the faint creak of the bed when I shift my weight. The burn in my thigh lingers, and my skin still feels wrong-hot.
“What are you doing?” Warren asks, hands coming up automatically as I edge toward the side of the mattress.
“Getting up,” I say, pointing out the obvious.