Page 179 of Unhinged Omega

A knock at the door interrupts my thoughts. The Knight tenses immediately, a warning growl building in his chest as he shifts to position himself between me and the potential threat.

"Come in," I call, placing a calming hand on the Knight's arm again.

The door opens to reveal a disheveled man in a white coat. The doctor, I presume. He looks like he's seen better days—his hair is mussed, his eyes bloodshot, and there's a slight tremor in his hands as he carries his medical bag into the room.

"Dr. Ryefield," he introduces himself with a curt nod. His gaze flicks nervously to the Knight, then back to me. "Geo sent me to check on your..." He gulps loudly. "Friend."

"Thank you for coming," I say, feeling a bit better when I see he's scared shitless. I don't like doctors, but a frightened one may be tolerable. "I'm Cosima. This is... Knight."

It's less of a mouthful thantheKnight. I tell myself that's the only reason I've made it more of a real name. That it has nothing to do with the strange feelings I'm developing for the alpha I've been terrified of my entire life.

"Yes, I know who you are," he says, setting his bag down on a nearby table. "Everyone in this hellhole knows who you are by now."

Wonderful. Just what I need. More attention.

Knight's growl deepens as the doctor approaches, his massive frame coiling with tension. I tighten my grip on his arm, willing him to stay calm.

"It's okay," I murmur to him. "He's here to help. Remember?"

The growling subsides to a low rumble, but Knight's burning blue eyes never leave the doctor as he unpacks his supplies.

"I need to examine his wounds," Dr. Ryefield says, pulling on a pair of latex gloves with practiced efficiency. "Can you control him?"

I bristle at the implication. "He's not apet."

"No," the doctor agrees, eyeing Knight's metal claws warily. "He's much more dangerous than that. But Geo says you have some sort of... influence over him."

I exchange a glance with Knight. "We have an understanding," I say finally. "He won't hurt you unless you try to hurt me. In which case, well… that would be a different story."

"Fantastic," the doctor mutters dryly. "No pressure at all."

Despite his obvious fear, Dr. Ryefield approaches the bed with professional composure. "I need to see the wounds on your back first," he tells Knight directly, as if speaking to a normal patient. "Can you turn around for me?"

To my surprise, Knight complies without prompting, shifting on the bed with an irritated growl to present his scarred back to the doctor. I move with him, keeping one hand on his arm, as much for my own comfort as his.

"Good lord," Dr. Ryefield breathes as he takes in the extent of the damage. "What happened to you?"

Knight, of course, doesn't answer.

"Explosions and bullets," I say.

The doctor hums thoughtfully as he begins to clean the wounds. Knight flinches at the first touch of antiseptic, another low growl rumbling in his chest, but he doesn't pull away. I move my hand to his and squeeze it. As much as I can, anyway. My hand barely wraps around half his palm.

"These aren't just from a fight," Dr. Ryefield says after a moment, his fingers gently probing the deep vertical gashes on either side of Knight's spine. Knight flinches in clear pain and my heart clenches. "These are surgical. Or they were, before something was ripped out."

I lean forward, peering over Knight's massive shoulder. The wounds are deep and ragged, as if something had been forcibly removed. "What do you mean?"

"I'm not sure," the doctor admits, reaching for a suture kit. "But judging by the placement and the surrounding scar tissue, I'd guess some sort of structure connected to his nervous system, given how they align with his upper spine." He begins to stitch the first wound closed with neat, precise movements. "Whoever did this to him didn't care about his comfort. Or his survival, for that matter."

Knight remains perfectly still as the doctor works, but I can feel the tension radiating from him. His breathing is carefully controlled, each exhale measured as if he's counting the seconds until this is over.

"Can't you give him something for the pain?" I ask, worried. I know antiseptic, let alone anesthetics, are in short supply out here, but there has to be something.

Dr. Ryefield glances up with a look that's not unsympathetic. "I'm afraid the metabolism of an alpha who's capable of surviving injuries like this would burn through anything I have on hand almost immediately. It would just be more needles for no benefit."

"Oh."

Even though we're both sitting on the bed, I still have to stretch my arm up to reach his bone-white hair. I card my hand through it, trying to soothe him. He relaxes fractionally at my touch. Still, each time the needle slides into his skin and the stitches tug, Knight winces. His scarred skin feels cold and clammy to the touch.

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