Early the Next Morning
Warren
The kitchen in this house is obscene.
Not in a fun way, but more like: “we paid more for this marble than my first house” way.
Everything is polished and intentional. Deep walnut cabinets, matte-black hardware, and a range big enough to cook for an army.
Warm pendant lights cast a soft gold over surfaces that never seem to hold fingerprints.
We’ve lived here for months, but the space still sits wrong under my skin. Too curated. Too clean. Like we bought someone else’s life and haven’t quite grown into it.
I wipe down a countertop that’s already spotless. Then wipe it again. My hands need something to do.
Off the kitchen, in the dining room, Dr. Pace clears his throat.
I go still, cloth clenched tight in my fist.
The kitchen opens directly into the dining room through an oversized archway. There are no doors, nothing to buffer sound. The design choice feels “expansive” or at least that’s what the realtor said when she walked us through it.
Right now, it makes it impossible not to hear every little thing happening in there.
“Hold still, Mr. Vexler,” the doctor says softly.
I inch closer to the arch, shoulder brushing the frame as I lean in far enough to see.
Cassian sits at the head of the long dining table, with his injured knee stretched out in front of him, rigid and wrong.
He looks like hell.
His usually pale blue eyes look dark, and his salt and pepper hair is slicked flat against his sweaty forehead. He’s propped back in the chair like the wood is doing more work than he is, with strain etched around his eyes.
Dr. Pace stands beside the pack alpha, glasses low on his nose as he inspects Cass’s knee with practiced, clinical hands.
Beck hovers near Cass’s shoulder like a frightened cat, quick to startle.
He’s looking so thin lately, his wavy hair a disorderly mess that only gets worse every time he drags a shaking hand through it.
Seeing it makes me smooth my own straight blond hair back, an automatic correction, something to anchor myself.
Grason is here too, leaning against the far wall, arms crossed over his chest, a silent pillar taking up half the room. His eyes track every movement the doctor makes, every breath Cass takes. When he notices me watching him, his gaze lifts.
We exchange a look.
It’s short, quiet, and filled with fear. A shared understanding neither of us wants to voice: Our alpha is hurting. And we’re helpless to stop it.
Cassian inhales sharply as Dr. Pace presses along the swollen edge of his knee, then the doctor shoves a needle deep into the inflamed skin.
“What the fuck!” Cass lets out a low, primal growl. It echoes off the dining room walls like a threat he doesn’t have the strength to follow through on.
Beck flinches hard, shoulders jumping. Grason’s jaw ticks once, and my pulse spikes. The urge to rush in there and save my packmate from his pain is intense, but there’s nothing I can do.
Dr. Pace startles—a blink, a stutter in his posture—but he reins himself in fast. Professional mask back in place. He pulls the needle out, holding up one hand, palm open, like he’s soothing a cornered animal.
“Easy,” Pace murmurs. “I’m not trying to hurt you.”
Cass bares his teeth anyway. “You gave me the fucking antibiotic. What else do you need to do?”
Pace exhales through his nose. “I’m sorry, but your knee looks worse today, and your fever is very concerning.”
The air tightens. Beck’s breath catches, making a thin sound. Grason straightens enough to shift his weight, bracing.
Thankfully, Pace doesn’t sugarcoat it. “There’s pus inside the joint now. Not just surface swelling. The infection’s deeper than I hoped.”
Cass goes still. He looks like a predator, freezing before doing something reckless.
My heart slams against my chest. Because I know that stillness. I know exactly what follows it if someone doesn’t intervene, but I can’t move. I feel so fucking helpless and stupid right now, watching my pack alpha squirm in so much pain.
“How the fuck is it worse?” Cass grits out. “Why isn’t the medicine working?”
Pace levels him with a look that would be patronizing if it weren’t so damn calm.
“Well, for starters, you are supposed to be on bed rest, Cassian,” he says, his patience completely gone.
“You shouldn’t be downstairs, sitting at the damn dining room table like you’re hosting brunch.
” He gestures toward Cass’s knee. “Walking on it, sitting for long stretches, putting weight where you shouldn’t, aggravates the infection and slows the antibiotics. ”
Cass’s nostrils flare, the beginnings of another growl rolling in his chest, but this time Pace doesn’t back down.
“Growl all you want.” Pace snaps the cap back onto the used needle and disposes of it with forceful, irritated movements—tossing it into his sharps container with a click that echoes louder than it should.
“You’re damn lucky you didn’t lose that leg after the damage you took.
But if you keep this up, Cassian,” he jabs a finger toward the swollen knee, “you’ll definitely lose it. ”
Cass goes tight, shoulders snapping taut, animalistic tension rolling off him.
And then he moves, pushing off the chair like he’s about to lunge at Pace, fury and fever overriding common sense.
But the second he’s fully upright, the color just drains from his face.
Pace rears back a step, eyes widening, one hand lifting instinctively like he’s ready to ward off a blow. “Wait—don’t—”
The pack alpha goes completely white. His eyes flutter once like he’s confused, and then his knees buckle. His body goes slack as his upper body pitches forward.
Grason flies, launching himself off the wall. He catches Cass under the arms before he can hit the floor, hauling the unconscious alpha against his chest. The impact still jars them both, and Cass’s head lolls, dead weight.
Pace swears under his breath, his chest rising and falling fast.
“Cassian—Cass, hey—” Grason’s voice is rough, too loud in the sudden panic.
Beck makes a sound I’ve never heard from him. It’s a broken, high-pitched keening as he scrambles forward, his hands fluttering uselessly before he grabs Cass’s limp wrist. “Is he breathing? Oh god, is he—Dr. Pace, do something!”
Tears streak his face, falling fast. He looks small. Shaking. His whole body vibrating with terror. The moment his knees wobble, I cross the room and pull him into my chest, arms wrapping around him before he can topple over too.
My frightened mate clutches me instantly. He gathers fistfuls of my shirt, fingers shaking so hard it feels like they might break. His whole body trembles against mine, small and wrecked and terrified.
“I—Warren, he—he just—” Beck tries to speak, but the words dissolve into a strangled sob.
I don’t know what to say. My mind is white noise, shock buzzing under my skin.
All I can do is stare at Cass’s limp body and suck in his sharp scent. The usual thread of smoked amber and soft leather is dull and acidic at the same time, burning the back of my throat.
“Grason,” Pace says, snapping back into professional mode, like a switch has been thrown.
“Ease him down. Flat on his back,” he orders, reaching for his medical bag.
His voice is steady now, clipped and controlled.
He glances up at me without missing a beat.
“Warren, I need a pillow or something to elevate his legs.”
Beck jerks at Pace’s words like someone pulled a string. He releases me abruptly, stumbling back a step before spinning toward the living room.
“I’ll—I'll get it, I’ll get it—” His voice cracks as he runs, bare feet slapping against the hardwood. He’s still wiping at his face as he goes, breath hitching with every step.
Grason rises slowly from where he’d been kneeling, towering over Cass’s unconscious form. His hands hover uselessly at his sides before he fists them to keep from shaking.
We both watch Pace work, checking Cass’s pulse, blood pressure, steady clinical movements, but Grason’s expression is pure shock.
His usually curly hair is a wreck, flattened on one side, frizzy on the other. Like he’d been running his hands through it for hours. His eyes are dark, heavy with the kind of worry that’s been etched into all of us these last few weeks.
None of us have slept. Not really.
Not with Cass sliding downhill like this.
Beck comes sprinting back into the dining room, clutching one of the big navy pillows from the couch to his chest. He practically skids as he drops to his knees beside Grason.
“Here—here, I’ve got it,” he says, voice shaking.
Grason nods once, then bends and slips his arms beneath Cass’s legs. Even unconscious, Cassian tenses on instinct before going limp again. Grason lifts carefully. Gentle and controlled, like he’s holding something breakable.
“Okay,” Grason murmurs. “Put it there.”
Beck slides the pillow into place with trembling hands. His breath hitches every time his fingers brush Cass’s skin, like the contact burns. When the pillow is positioned, Grason lowers Cass’s legs onto it with slow, deliberate precision. The way you’d set down a weapon you respect.
Beck wipes at his face again, though the tears keep coming.
Pace finally looks up. “Thank you, Beck.” Our sweet beta reacts like someone handed him a lifeline.
Beck gives a shaky smile, nods once, then crosses his arms tight over his chest. Like he’s trying to hold himself together from the outside.
Pace checks Cass’s pulse one more time, then he reaches into his pocket. He pulls out his phone and unlocks it with quick movements.
I see the numbers before he finishes punching them in.
911.
“Wait.” My voice cuts sharper than I intend.
Pace shoots me an annoyed look, his thumb hovering over the screen. “Warren, his blood pressure’s bottoming out. This infection is wreaking havoc in his body. He needs to be in a hospital—”