Page 4 of Knot Like Other Girls

As soon as the doors close, Braxley thrusts his phone at me. He's already unlocked it. "Call my parents," he demands, his voice shrill. "They need to know what's happened to me!"

I take the phone, my fingers trembling slightly as I scroll through his contacts. I find "Mommy and Daddy"—complete with heart emojis—and hit dial.

While the phone rings, Braxley pulls out a compact mirror and starts examining his face, whimpering dramatically every few seconds. The paramedic tries to clean the cut, but Braxley keeps swatting her hand away.

"Braxley, darling?" a woman's voice comes through the phone, sounding slightly breathless. "Is everything alright? Did the proposal go well?"

I clear my throat. "Mrs. Worthington? This is Bella. There's been an... incident."

"An incident?" Her voice sharpens. "What kind of incident? Is my Braxley okay?"

I glance at Braxley, who's now demanding the paramedic give him a full-body CT scan to check for "internal disfigurements."

"There was a shooting at the restaurant," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "Braxley has a small cut on his eyebrow. We're in an ambulance now, heading to the hospital."

There's a gasp, followed by the sound of something shattering. "A shooting? Oh my God! Put Braxley on the phone right now!"

I hold out the phone to Braxley. "Your mom wants to talk to you."

He snatches the phone from me. "Mommy?" His voice instantly transforms into that of a scared little boy. "It was awful! I almost died! And now I'm hideously deformed!"

I tune out as Braxley recounts his version of events, which seems to involve him single-handedly fighting off a team of professional assassins while simultaneously shielding me and all the other guests from harm. His mother's concerned exclamations punctuate the story at regular intervals.

The paramedic catches my eye and mouths, "Is he always like this?"

I just nod, too exhausted to even attempt an explanation.

As the ambulance weaves through the streets, sirens blaring, I lean my head against the cool metal wall and close my eyes. The events of the night play on repeat in my mind. The proposal. The gunshot. The figure in black.

"Some alpha you've got there, miss."

The words echo in my head, cutting through Braxley's continued dramatics. I think about how quickly he ran, how his first concern was for his appearance rather than my safety or the well-being of his guests.

Some alpha indeed.

When we arrive at the hospital, it's like a scene from a movie. Braxley insists on being wheeled in on a stretcher, moaning loudly about his pain and disfigurement. A team of doctors and nurses swarm around him, looking increasingly confused as they realize the extent—or lack thereof—of his injuries.

I trail behind, feeling more like a prop than a person. A nurse hands me a clipboard full of forms to fill out, and I settle into an uncomfortable plastic chair in the waiting room.

As I'm trying to remember Braxley's blood type (is "sparkling" an option?), my phone buzzes. It's a text from my sister, Ashlyn.

I stare at the message, a hysterical laugh bubbling up in my throat. Of course she already knows about it. She lives on social media. And of course, it's been completely blown out of proportion.

Before I can reply, another text comes through. This one's from my mother.

My fingers hover over the keyboard. What am I supposed to say? That their future son-in-law is currently throwing a tantrum because the hospital doesn't stock his preferred brand of organic, cruelty-free bandages? That the "hero" they're so proud of left me behind without a second thought?

In the end, I send back something simple.

I've just hit send when a commotion erupts from the direction of Braxley's room. His voice, somehow even whinier than usual, echoes down the hallway.

"What do you mean, stitches? Do you know who I am? I have a skincare video to film tomorrow!"

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