Plague
The exam room reeks even through the black surgical mask I'm sure does fuck-all to protect me from the hospital filth.
And not just of the usual hospital scents like disinfectant and antibacterial cleaners, either. Oh, no. It can't be that easy.
It smells like piss and drunk alpha vomit.
And I'm sitting on a paper-covered table that crinkles with every breath, trying very hard not to look at Whiskey on the adjacent table.
Trying and failing spectacularly.
We're both shirtless for the examinations, which already has me on edge because of the scar on my chest I don't exactly enjoy showing off, and apparently my eyes have decided this is the perfect time to betray every ounce of my self-control.
Whiskey's thick torso practically glows in the overhead lights.
I've seen him naked. Many times, often unnecessarily, because he takes every opportunity he gets to disrobe. Locker rooms don't leave room for modesty, and after recent events—fuck, don't think about recent events—I've seen considerably more than usual.
But somehow, right now, in this sterile exam room with an older doctor bustling between us, it hits different.
Maybe because now I know exactly what that warm, soft, strong body feels like pressed against mine. What those massive hands feel like tangled in my hair. What growling sounds he makes when he—
For fuck's sake, Plague, STOP IT.
I force my gaze to the wall, studying the anatomical poster of the human spine with intense focus that would be better spent literally anywhere else.
"Oh my," the doctor says appreciatively, looking over Whiskey. "You're a big guy, aren't you?"
My eyes narrow slightly.
Not exactly professional, but she's old enough to get away with it.
Whiskey just grins like she just handed him a fucking trophy. "Yeah, I get that a lot. My omega loves the extra padding. Says I'm made for cuddling."
I roll my eyes.
The doctor's hands linger on Whiskey's chest, pressing along his ribs and abdomen with what I'm fairly certain is unnecessary thoroughness. "Well, she's a lucky girl. Any pain when I press here?"
"Nah, I'm good."
"And here?"
"All good, ma'am."
I watch her hands move across his skin, poking and prodding the bruising on his left shoulder. It's already darkening to deep purple, spreading down toward his bicep.
From the car rolling.
From Valek's violent reaction to being followed.
From Whiskey's absolute fucking refusal to leave well enough alone.
"Your shoulder took quite a hit," the doctor observes, gently probing the injury. "Any grinding sensation? Popping?"
"Just sore," Whiskey says, though I catch the slight wince when she presses harder.
"Mmm." She makes a note on her clipboard. "Well, I don't think anything's broken. You alphas are built tough."
"That's what they tell us," Whiskey agrees cheerfully, flexing to show off his biceps as if he wants her to fuss over him more.
Just to torment me, I'm sure.
She turns her attention to me, and I straighten automatically. Her hands are cool and impersonal as she checks my ribs.
"Bruising here," she notes, pressing along my left side. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from making a sound at the flaring pain. "Does it hurt to breathe deeply?"
"A bit," I admit.
"Is he broken?" Whiskey pipes up worriedly, earning another eyeroll from me.
"Unlikely. Just bruised." She moves to my jaw, tilting my face toward the light. "This from the accident?"
"No," I say flatly. "That's from our teammate."
Valek's right hook, to be specific.
"Rough sport," she observes, making another note. "Any dizziness? Nausea?"
"No."
"Vision changes?"
I fucking wish.
Then I wouldn't be able to see Whiskey.
"No."
"Good." She steps back, surveying us both with the eye of someone who's seen every kind of injury imaginable and has already cleared us. "You're both remarkably lucky. A rollover accident could have been much worse."
"See?" Whiskey says, shooting me that insufferable grin. "Told you we'd be fine."
"It wasn't a little accident," I mutter. "We rolled an SUV down a fucking mountainside."
"Details, schmetails," Whiskey waves dismissively.
The doctor hands us discharge papers with a stern expression. "No strenuous activity for two weeks. That includes hockey, mind you."
Whiskey's grin vanishes instantly. "Wait, what? Two weeks?"
"At minimum. Your shoulder needs time to heal properly, and—"
"We have a game next week," Whiskey interrupts, sitting up straighter despite the wince he stifles. "Against our rivals. The Demons. And I'm not missing it."
"I'm afraid medical advice supersedes your game schedule," the doctor says, unmoved by his protest.
"Nah, see, you don't understand." Whiskey's entire demeanor shifts, that easy charm replaced by something darker. More intense. "There's this one alpha in particular we need to wipe the floor with. And I'm not missing that opportunity."
The menace in his voice makes my eyebrows raise. Whiskey rarely gets genuinely threatening. When he does, it's usually for good reason.
He's talking about Wade Kelly.
My nails bite into my palms before I realize what I'm doing.
"I can't clear you for contact sports," the doctor says firmly, though she already sounds resigned. Like she's picked up on the fact Whiskey isn't going to listen, and neither am I, for that matter. "Your shoulder—"
"Will be just fine, ma'am," Whiskey finishes. "I've played through worse."
"That's inadvisable."
"Noted." Whiskey smiles and takes the discharge papers, already swinging his legs off the table. "Thanks for the patch job, Doc. You're a real one."
He holds out his fist.
To fist bump her.
She sighs, clearly recognizing a losing battle, but she doesn't take him up on the fist bump offer. That is apparently a bridge too far for a doctor who was practically pawing at him a few minutes ago.
"At least ice the shoulder regularly," she says. "And if the pain gets worse—"
"I'll come straight back, Doc," Whiskey lies smoothly. "Promise."
We gather our partially destroyed shirts and make our way through the hospital corridors. My ribs protest every movement. Perhaps the doctor had a point about resting.
Oh, well.
I pull out my phone, trying once again to reach Thane.
"Still nothing?" Whiskey asks, glancing at my screen. "Huh. Maybe they're too busy fucking to answer."
Heat crawls up my neck despite my best efforts. "Whiskey."
"Dude. Come on." Whiskey's grin is back. The one that makes me want to simultaneously punch him and... other things. "Wraith's already gotten some. Thane's with 'em. You do the math."
I don't want to do the math.
The "math" involves highly detailed mental images of our scent matched omega between our pack leader and his feral brother, taking them both at once, crying out their names while I'm stuck in a Canadian hospital with bruised ribs and an even more bruised ego.
I've always had a terribly vivid imagination, and apparently, I'm jealous.
We turn a corner toward the exit, and Whiskey suddenly grabs my arm, yanking me behind a wall divider with surprising force for someone who supposedly has an injured shoulder.
"What the fu—"
His hand clamps over my mouth, silencing my protest in the meat of his palm. He's lucky I don't bite him. But his eyes are wide, urgent, focused on something around the corner.
I pause, listening.
Voices. Multiple people. One of them deep, smooth, accented, and distinctly familiar in the worst possible way.
"—ridiculous. She'll be fine after the surgery, but she's being completely unreasonable about staying overnight."
Valek.
That's fucking Valek's voice.
Whiskey's hand drops from my mouth, but we both press against the wall, hidden from view.
Well. I am. I don't know about Whiskey.
"She's always been stubborn," another voice responds. Male, warm, and fond. "Remember when she insisted on climbing that tree to hang a birdhouse even though she's terrified of heights?"
"She made it exactly three feet before yelling for help," Valek muses with a weary sigh. There's a softness in his tone that doesn't fit with the alpha predator who threatened to gut us less than two hours ago.
"And Dad did help. Immediately." A woman's voice now, amused. "Never could say no to her."
"None of us can," Valek mutters.
Any lingering doubt it's a real family emergency evaporates instantly.
"I feel fucking bad, dude," Whiskey breathes in my ear.
"Yes," I mumble, still processing.
We wait another minute to make sure they're gone before stepping out from behind the wall. The hallway stretches empty in both directions.
"Bro, we should—"
Valek rounds the corner.
His silver eyes lock onto us immediately, and I watch his entire body language shift. The softened edges from talking to his family vanish, replaced by the far more familiar menacing stillness that makes every hair on the back of my neck stand up.
"You are fucking kidding me," Valek says, voice deadly quiet and flat.
Whiskey steps forward, hands raised in what's probably meant to be a placating gesture but comes across more like he's squaring up for round two. "Look. We can explain—"
"I warned you." Valek's already coming toward us, his long-legged stride eating the distance fast enough Whiskey hesitates for once in his life. "I fucking told you precisely what would happen if you showed your faces again. Do you have a death wish?"
"We weren't following you," I say smoothly, stepping slightly to the side to put myself between them. Not that I could reliably stop Valek if he decided to make good on his threat, but perhaps it'll stop Whiskey from lunging at him. "We came here after the accident."
Valek lets out a barking laugh. "How convenient."
"Val? Everything okay out here?"
All three of us turn to see a beta woman approaching. Short and round and beautifully cute, her forearm and hand in a bright pink cast that matches the cats embroidered on her cardigan.
"Everything's fine, Mother," Valek says, his tone gentling. "Just ran into some... colleagues."
This is his mother?
I hope the shock isn't clear on my face.
Perhaps he's adopted.